For You and For Myself
by soulofair
Summary: Irene's role in Sherlock's life doesn't just fade away.   Fading isn't her thing.   Instead, their relationship flourishes.  Blatantly obvious spoilers for S2; OC in later chapters
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello my lovelies! I'm jumping on the I Love Irene Adler bandwagon with this story here; surprised that she's not on the character list for Sherlock yet. Anyway, I don't recommend reading this if you haven't seen the first episode of the second series (or any of the second series for that matter). I don't own the rights to Sherlock, don't own the characters either. All rights are reserved to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and any other group that I have not mentioned.

Enjoy!

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><p>It took Irene two days after Sherlock unlocked her phone before she broke into the flat again. She had been watching the flat, keeping tabs on both her Baker Street boys, and knew that John had left for the weekend, leaving Sherlock on his own at the flat.<p>

She stalked the flat, waiting until Sherlock had gone out to run errands, so she could enter the flat undetected. After she was certain that he was gone, she slipped in through the upstairs window and made her way into Sherlock's room, discarding an article of clothing as she went. First, it was her shoes, then her ivory silk blouse, followed by her black pencil skirt, her stockings, her garters, and last but not least, her bra at the doorway. But because this was her battle dress, the ultimate mask, this simply would not do.

There was no allure to this mask. This mask had already been stripped of all effectiveness, and if Irene Adler had learned anything from her experience with Sherlock Holmes, it was that you couldn't fool him twice, if it was possible for him to be fooled at all. He wouldn't respond if she were simply laid out on his bed in the nude. No… it was likelier that he'd respond to her favorably if she presented herself in something that he could connect with.

She figured the best way to present herself favorably would be to strip herself of everything that made her uniquely herself. Her makeup, her perfume, the remnants of any of her shampoos, soaps, lotions, etc.—it all had to be stripped away and replaced with something neutral, something that Sherlock wouldn't notice because it was so commonplace for him.

Irene headed to the bathroom and took a shower, paying extreme attention to her memory of what Sherlock smelled like. She wanted to be sure to recreate that smell to the best of her ability, her own body's chemistry allowing. She figured if he recognized his own smell on her, he'd subconsciously be more inclined to let her in. To have dinner with her.

It was nearly four o'clock when she stepped out of the shower and searched for a towel to dry herself off with. She saw a clean towel sitting on a shelf near the shower. Before she wrapped it around herself, she brought it to her face and drew in a long inhale. Even the laundry detergent that his things were washed in was enough to set her off.

Now that she was dried off, she went off in search of something to wear. Her garments just wouldn't suffice; they were already being put to use as "crumbs" for Sherlock; each article of clothing would lead him to her. No, she needed something of his. The dressing gown was the obvious choice, but that had already been tried. She had gotten far with him with the dressing gown, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Boxers and a button-down shirt, she decided. He was rather fond of his tight-fitting button-downs and based on the state of his underwear drawer, it was obvious that he was meticulous about his clothing and his appearance. He would notice his own clothing on her. Just as he would notice his scent on her. That was the thing about Sherlock Holmes: he noticed things, regardless of whether it was intentional or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Because it was boring at the flat when the infamous crime-fighting Baker Boys were out, Irene settled into Sherlock's bed. If she were a different person and had taken a different approach to life, she might refuse to leave this bed. There was something comforting and protective of this particular bed. Because Sherlock was fussy about what he put on his body, it was clear that he was also fussy about what he slept in. His sheets were regularly laundered and had a high thread-count. And since he slept here, the entire bed smelled of him. Yes, she could spend an eternity in this bed.

"What are you doing here?" a voice asked.

Irene woke up and realized that she'd been asleep for some time, as it was now dark. She knew it was Sherlock, and she knew that her lure had worked. "I needed a nap," she answered.

He flipped on the light. "It's a shame that you're not blonde. At least then we could start calling you Goldilocks because of your propensity to sleep in beds that aren't yours," he remarked as he walked to the middle of the room.

She grinned. "You're witty. I like a witty man," she crooned.

Sherlock sighed. "You've surrendered your phone to Mycroft…"

"Might I add that that was a forced surrender? My plan was going well until you decided that it was time to ruin my fun."

"That's the drawback of the game, Miss Adler."

She rolled onto her side and kicked off the blankets. "Join me?"

"I'm not tired."

"Boy, you don't need much, do you? You're never hungry, you're never tired… what else are you never?"

"You're a liability. I don't like liabilities taking up residency in my bed."

"And you're an enigma. I've always liked enigmas. They take longer to figure out, but once they've been figured out, they're the most fun to play with."

"I don't play well with others," he snorted.

Irene got out of the bed and walked towards Sherlock. He glanced at her, realizing that she was wearing his clothing. "Is this something you do often? Break into residences and put on their clothing and… shower in their bathrooms?"

"Not usually. Actually, this is a recent habit I've taken up."

"I see," he hummed as he walked around the bed and retrieved his dressing gown from the wardrobe.

"Join me, Mr. Holmes," she crooned softly.

"No thanks," he answered stiffly as he left the room.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm not hungry."

"But you must be!" she insisted as she hopped out of the bed and scrambled after him.

"You're chasing me now… that's a new one."

"All those women… all those lovely, perhaps lonely, women who look at you on a daily basis; do you see anything in them?"

He turned to look at her. "Miss Adler, I do not know what you are talking about, but then again, I don't care."

"You do care."

"No, I don't."

"If you won't join me for dinner, why not join me for appetizers?"

"Miss Adler!"

He was agitated by her insistence to have sex. Why was sex so important to her anyway?

"Mr. Holmes… you are even sexier when your temper is warming," she crooned as she busied her hands by untying the dressing gown.

"No… no!" he hissed as he tried to hinder her efforts.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Irene had him where she wanted him; walking backwards into his bedroom. As soon as they reached the bed, Irene was straddling him, working at undoing the buttons on his shirt, leaning over him and kissing his neck as she did so. "Irene," he whined.

She sat back onto his thighs and stopped unbuttoning at the fly of his trousers. "I won't go any further if you do not want to do this. But, based on your extremely dilated pupils, your rapid pulse, and every other indication that you do want this…"

Unexpectedly, Irene found herself under Sherlock. "Oh…" she murmured. "Well…"

He backed away from her, turning his back to her as he did so. "I don't do sex."

"I thought you were doing just fine," she informed him.

"Irene, I don't do these things."

"Why?"

"Why would I? It just complicates things?"

"No it doesn't. That case you have right now, the one that's giving you so much grief… I think having some knowledge of sex would be useful."

"Why do you want to have sex with me?"

"Smart is sexy."

"Smart is smart. Sexy is sexy. They do not overlap."

Irene laughed to herself. She had him right where she wanted him, and she knew the two words, the only two words in the universe that used at this exact moment, that would make Sherlock Holmes beg for mercy twice.

"Prove it."

He turned around and stared at her. There was a reason she was so good at what she did. It was because she was clever. So very clever.

But, if she was going to play him, he was going to play her. This was the game, and it had just begun.

And he was going to prove it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had never felt more animalistic in his life. He had experienced many things in his life, but never had he felt more impassioned or that he _needed_ something as much as he did in this moment.

Mycroft's cruel and humiliating implication that he was a virgin and therefore knew nothing about women had been true, so Sherlock let Irene take the reins with this. After a short while of making do with her quick but deep kisses to his neck, shoulders, cheeks and head, he began reciprocating. Both made sure not to kiss the other on the mouth; such actions would imply that they were in this for romantic reasons rather than the real reason they were doing this: Sherlock needed to prove Irene Adler wrong while proving Irene Adler right.

His sexual maturity was blatantly obvious as he fumbled to undo the buttons to his own shirt on Irene. On the other hand, Irene had managed to get both Sherlock's shirt and trousers off of him without any issues. He didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified by this.

He finally succeeded in getting the buttons of the shirt undone. As he tried to pull it off of her, it got caught somewhere. "Cuffs," she muttered as he tried to figure out where the problem was.

Because Sherlock's incompetency was slowing things down, Irene broke away momentarily and undid the buttons. She was now completely nude and on top of Sherlock. Irene leaned down to resume her routine of kissing his upper body but was briefly hit with the thought that she was about to take the virginity of a man who was well into his thirties. She'd never been with a virgin before.

But Sherlock was a smart boy, and he was a very quick learner, based on his performance of the previous minutes. Sure, his trick with forgetting to unbutton the cuffs was a bit elementary, but everything else he was doing was _working_. She liked quick studies.

A few more minutes went by, and though it was subtle, Irene could tell that Sherlock was getting anxious. "Ready?" she asked him in a hoarse voice.

"When you are," he replied. "Oh… but what about protection?"

"Mr. Holmes, I do sex for a living. I'm well prepared."

"But are you… you know… clean?"

"Sherlock!" she hissed.

"Sorry. Just wondering."

"I'm fine. Now, you go back to what you were doing and let me show you how things are done."

Irene had gone into the experiment with low expectations. By the end of it, she was glad that she hadn't kept her expectations that high. "You, Mr. Holmes, are by far the worst lover I have ever been with—and you should see the list," she grumbled as she rolled off of him and onto her back.

"You knew what you were getting into," Sherlock retorted defensively. "You knew what this meant."

"But… I thought you would have had at least some fundamental knowledge of the female body!" Irene hissed.

Sherlock stared at her with a look of bemusement. "You are actually insane, aren't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"You should now better—you're supposed to be the best of your trade. No?

"Flattering, but no. Far from it."

"I suppose we could both use this as a learning experience then," he sniffed before turning his back to her.

His petulant child-like attitude made Irene realize that perhaps she should have been a little gentler with him. He had been a virgin for three and a half decades prior to this evening, but now, he was no longer that, and here she was, scolding him for being exactly as she had expected.

Sherlock was surprised when he felt her long fingers lazily sweeping his back, occasionally pausing to draw circles or other senseless shapes and patterns. "You have a mole that is in the shape of a heart," she murmured as she traced around the spot with her blood-red fingernails.

He only hummed in reply, closing his eyes to go to sleep. He figured this was a biological response to sexual intercourse, no matter how awkward it had been for the two of them.

Irene smiled when she heard him softly snoring, and curled up against him before she too fell asleep.

Sherlock was a little surprised to wake and find that Irene was curled around him, still asleep. He wasn't completely surprised because he knew that attraction and the level of affection that she maintained for him (she wasn't the sort of girl who wouldn't appreciate having her life spared) and what that equated to. What surprised him, however, was exactly just how tightly she clung to him, as if she were a sloth and he was the tree that she'd chosen. (Ironically, if Sherlock had to summarize Irene Adler in one word, it wouldn't have been sloth. It would have been one of the other seven deadly sins, but certainly not sloth.)

Sherlock was still rather shaken from the events from the previous evening. Sex and other physical interactions of that nature had never been his forte, and now that he had been stripped of his virginity, he felt a little naked. He felt vulnerable, but not to the point that he felt he had been violated. No, no… it wasn't anything like that. He couldn't really pinpoint exactly how he felt about the matter, except for the fleeting memory of that it had felt like.

Irene Adler certainly had known what she was doing when she pinned Sherlock down on the bed after accomplishing what no other person had been able to do since he was a small child—undressing him. The look in her eye was inscrutable: a combination of lust, pride, exhaustion, sadness, utter bliss, and frustration all bound into a singular driving force that she exerted on him as she gave her first lesson in sex and its many perks. Instinct made Sherlock want to see that look again.

John was still away, though Sherlock didn't know where his friend had gone. It had been one of the things John had told Sherlock multiple times in the previous weeks, but Sherlock had been too busy to pay attention. But, Miss Adler would do in the absence of his companion.


	4. Chapter 4

Irene woke up to an empty bed. She smelled coffee and something cooking in the kitchen, but couldn't hear anything. She slid out of the bed and plucked a shirt from the floor. The garment was cool from disuse and smelled of Sherlock, though this time, instead of smelling of laundry detergent, soap, and shampoo, the shirt smelled of Sherlock himself. She couldn't decide what the smell was, other than to say that it smelled of his body odor. It wasn't pungent or unpleasant, just familiar. She smirked as she thought of how the shirt might have become sweaty the night before.

Quietly, she padded out into the kitchen and found Sherlock sitting at the table, reading the paper. He didn't notice when she walked out of the bedroom, so she helped herself to the food that was on the stove. When she sat down and poked her utensil into the food, she glanced up at Sherlock, who still had yet to acknowledge her presence. "I'm not going to die from this, am I?" she asked jokingly.

His eyes flicked over to her. "Did you know my family lived in France for a few years during my adolescence?" he asked airily.

"No, I didn't."

"Mother thought it would behoove me if I were to take cooking classes during the summer. It was extremely dull, but in hindsight, it served its purpose."

"So you can cook?"

"Yes. But that detail remains between you and me. Do you understand?"

Despite the fact that he was stern as he scrutinized every detail of her face, Irene saw that there was a playful glint in his eye. "John doesn't know?"

"Heavens, no! Could you imagine what that would be like if he knew? I've learned how to keep his expectations of me very low, and if he knew that I can cook, that might ruin things."

"You're horrible!" Irene laughed. "Oh, poor John. Not only does he have to live with you, but he has to live with you and your conniving scheming."

He smirked. "He doesn't mind."

"How do you know?"

"He's still my flatmate, no?"

Irene sighed. Sherlock had obviously had some sort of an epiphany during the course of the night, because he was being uncharacteristically chipper. Unless this is what the de-flowered Sherlock was like, of course.

"Did you solve the case?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"You clearly have had experience with what the case was dealing with."

"One of my favorite things," Irene crooned. "Would you like for me to show you how it's done, just so you can fully understand the case?"

"The man died from autoerotic asphyxiation. I think I'd rather not."

"Suit yourself," Irene hummed.

"Besides, you said that I was the worst lover you've ever taken. Proclamations like that don't sit well with a man's ego."

"Sherlock, your ego is so large that large stars revolve around it."

"Ah… John has reliably informed me that stars don't typically revolve around planets; it's the other way around."

"Oh good, you've gotten that sorted."

"You still reading the blog?"

"Of course."

Irene ate her breakfast quietly as Sherlock went back to reading the paper. After about ten minutes of silence, Sherlock looked up from the paper. Irene glanced up and their eyes locked. "Do you want to give it another go?" he asked her quietly.

Irene set down her fork and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I thought you would never ask," she confessed as she stood up from the table abruptly and started unbuttoning the shirt as she headed back into the bedroom, Sherlock following close behind.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a few weeks before Irene contacted Sherlock again. She didn't call or text; instead she sent a very succinct email.

_I'm pregnant. Obviously yours, given the timing. Don't worry; you won't need to be involved. I just thought I would give you fair warning in case you get a case in about twenty years and it turns out that you're after your own kid. Because let's be honest, that will happen. But I digress. _

_Obviously, I'm planning on following through with this. It might be fun. (Terrible way of approaching parenthood, I know.) Regardless, this is just for your awareness that the impossible has occurred: you have managed to procreate. _

_If you wish, I will keep you posted about how things go from this point forward. I might send photos occasionally once the child is born. _

_Also, just for the sake of confidentiality, I recommend deleting this message as soon as possible. John's computer isn't the only computer that is "borrowed" in that flat. _

_Much love,_

_Irene. _

Sherlock sat staring at the screen, completely frozen. He figured it must have been some record that they managed to procreate as quickly as they did. It must have been their superior genes that managed to pull that one off. He read through the email once or ten times more before he finally deleted Irene's message. There really were no words to use to express how he felt about this matter.

Well, that's what he had thought before John walked through the door.

"Hi Sherlock… I'm ba—"

"Dammit!" he exclaimed as he flew up from his chair and hurled himself towards his room.

John stood in the middle of the living room, looking hopelessly lost. "Sherlock?" he called out. "Sherlock, I got more milk… for the third time this week…"

An hour later, Sherlock emerged from his room, finding John sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. "What was that?" John asked absently.

"Sorry. I made a mistake."

This peaked John's interest. "Sherlock Holmes made a mistake?"

"Don't."

"But what sort of mistake would Sherlock bloody Holmes have made?"

"John, don't."

"Seriously though… was someone's life in danger because of it?"

"Yes."

"Oh…"

"They're no longer in danger though. They shouldn't be, at least."

"How do you know?"

"I remedied the issue."

"You remedied the issue?"

"Yes."

"Okay… I'm guessing you're not going to tell me much else?"

"Not likely."

"Right. Well, I got the milk you asked for. Should we invest in a cow?"

"Sorry?"

"You know, for all the milk you use."

"John, where would we keep a cow in the flat?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly.

John sighed. Sherlock clearly was not paying attention to him.

That night, Sherlock did not sleep. His mind was still racing from Irene's email. A child. Good lord. That was going to end poorly. Irene would probably tire of the child within a few months, possibly dumping the responsibility of raising said child on Sherlock, and in turn, John. Mycroft would take devilish delight in this prospect of using the child as leverage against Sherlock (he wasn't sure how Mycroft would use this against him, but his brother was cunning enough to figure something out.)

Regardless, it was time to start keeping closer tabs on Irene Adler. She might have been a criminal and carried a child that Sherlock neither wanted nor expected, but the time might come when he needed her again. Besides, a mind like hers was nothing to waste.


	6. Chapter 6

As it turned out, keeping tabs on Irene was the best thing Sherlock could have done. A few months after their last encounter, he was on a plane to Karachi to make sure that Miss Adler wasn't executed. The circumstances surrounding her execution order were hazy, but that wasn't exactly what he was concerned about. Though, to be quite honest, he didn't know what he was concerned about. It wasn't like he cared about Irene or anything.

So, he did the typical fairytale sort of thing and played the role of the knight in shining armor, off to sweep the damsel in distress off her feet. Sherlock had never liked fairytales; they always ended in such unrealistic ways, a cop-out to obscure the real ending of these stories. Besides, Irene was hardly a damsel in distress; she simply needed a little bit of help getting herself out of this situation.

They retreated to the boat that would take them into India, where they would get a flight from Mumbai to Australia. Sherlock wasn't able to actually look at Irene, since she still needed to stay hidden. He could tell that she was still wired from their escape, but was exhausted physically and emotionally. When they boarded the boat, she nearly collapsed from exhaustion, so Sherlock wrapped his arm under hers and braced her as they walked to their tiny room at the head of the ship.

As soon as the door to their room was locked and Irene had been placed on the bed, Sherlock turned around to go talk to the captain. Per the agreement he had made with the captain, they needed to be out of the harbor within ten minutes to ensure that they would reach Mumbai without being tracked. Sherlock was certain that Mycroft would have some means of keeping tabs on his younger brother and Sherlock was determined to keep away from those as much as possible.

Irene sat up in the bed and braced herself up on her elbows. "Are you leaving me here?" Irene asked in alarm.

"I'm going to go talk to the captain. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Sherlock, I'm serious. If you're going to get off the boat and let me…"

"Irene, I'm going to go talk to the captain. It won't be more than a few minutes. Sleep."

"If you leave me here…" she started before he stepped back towards the bed.

"I'm not going to leave you on the boat. In case you haven't figured it out already, I'm also a bit in trouble with the same group you're in trouble with—except they're not trying to execute me yet. I'm not leaving this boat. Go to sleep," he told her firmly.

She eyed him warily before sighing and lying back onto the pillows. "But if you do leave me, I'll have your head."

He rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him. It wasn't until Irene heard the click of the lock that she relaxed further and closed her eyes. She let out a heavy sigh and brought her hand down to her lower abdomen, feeling around to see if she could elicit any movement from the baby, who had been abnormally quiet that day.

Because she hadn't received much in regards to food in the last few months, Irene had become quite gaunt. This wasn't great news for someone who wasn't pregnant, so Irene was concerned that there would be problems with the baby. There hadn't been any antenatal checkups, she hadn't been taking any of the vitamins that she should have, and she was certain that it wasn't normal to actually be able to feel elbows and knees as well as she was able to. Hopefully, if Sherlock had arranged everything to perfect detail (which wasn't unlikely), the final months of her pregnancy would be closely monitored and she could make up for the previous months by doing things properly.

Keeping to his word, Sherlock did return a few minutes later, carrying a small box. "You're not asleep," he observed as he saw her looking at him when he entered the room.

"It's only been five minutes," she protested.

"Regardless, here's some food. The captain owed me a favor," he informed her as he set the box down on the bed and removed the tape from the flaps.

She sat up so she could see what was in the box. She was thrilled to see that there were several types of fruit, some naan, and some other foods that she didn't recognize. It was loads better than the one meal a day that she'd been getting in the prison. "It hasn't been laced with anything, right?"

"I wouldn't think so. The captain owed me a rather large favor."

Irene grabbed at a mango and a piece of naan. "I apologize if my air of grace suddenly disappears. Food hasn't exactly been present."

"I wouldn't expect it to be. Enjoy," Sherlock said as he turned away from the bed and started undressing.

She ate greedily, not concerned about the mess she was making. It was extremely unbecoming of a lady of her status and education, but in the necessity of the situation, she was above caring. It wasn't until she heard Sherlock chuckling that she realized how ridiculous she must have looked. "Shut up," she snapped as she took another bite of the mango. "I'm hungry."

"And for once, it's for food," he mused.

Irene glanced up at him and saw that he was standing at the foot of the bed, wearing his typical button-down shirt and slacks. His hair looked as though it hadn't been washed in a few days, but considering she'd been in a jail for the last few weeks, she wasn't one to talk. She was certain that she looked like hell and smelled worse. "What?" she asked, mango juice dripping from her mouth.

"I was hoping to snag a piece of the naan, but I'm afraid that you'll try to eat my hand," he replied.

She rolled her eyes and gestured to the box. "Help yourself. After all, it was you that got the food."

He raised his eyebrows and leaned over to grab a piece of naan that had been wrapped in a thin cloth. As he tore into the bread, he walked around to the other side of the small bed and sat down next to Irene. "Have there been any complications with the pregnancy?" he asked nonchalantly.

"As far as I can tell, no, there haven't. But then again, there haven't been any doctor visits."

"October?"

"Yes. The last week if my calculations are correct."

He thought for a moment. "Three months to make up for lost time."

"I presume you've made the proper arrangements?" Irene asked.

"When we arrive in Darwin, everything will be put into place."

"Darwin? Why Darwin?"

Irene's tone indicated that this was not acceptable. He turned to look at her. "Is that not to your liking?"

She realized how that must have sounded to him. "Sorry. I didn't mean it to sound that way. I was just wondering why you chose Darwin as opposed to somewhere else."

"It's a port city. It's easy in, easy out."

"What?"

"It's near enough to Asia that I can use that as an excuse to travel to Darwin."

"To come see me," she clarified.

"As a means of checking in to make sure that things are still going to plan."

"To come see me," she repeated.

He sighed. "Yes, to come see you," he spat impatiently. "That's not relevant though."

"Yes it is," she insisted. "Perhaps you are warming to the idea—"

"If you are about to suggest that I am reconsidering domesticity, please rethink your suggestion. There are details that will continue to be attended to, and it would be nice if I didn't blow your cover any time I needed to attend to those details."

"Why are you making this so impersonal?"

"The second it becomes personal is the second that our plans are ruined. It has to remain impersonal if we want this to work. I'd much rather not have to hear about your death from my brother."

"Does Mycroft know about this?"

"Of course not."

"Well, do he or John know where you are?"

"I've told both of them that I am currently working on a case."

"And they believe you?"

"I'm in Asia."

"What does that mean?"

"There are many things to investigate in Asia. There are many stories I could tell them. And none of them will ever include Darwin."

"But can't they trace you?"

"No. Oh, that's the other thing: aliases."

"Oh no… you've chosen a name for me, haven't you?"

"Elizabeth 'Ellie' Jenkins."

"Nothing too preposterous."

"You majored in business at UC Berkeley. You'll be able to get a job in marketing and advertising. I've sent your resume to several firms in Darwin. You'll have an interview next week. I figured you could use what you learned in your previous trade to be an effective contributor to an Australian fashion company."

Irene stared at him in bewilderment. "Why have you gone to so much trouble?"

"We've got other things to worry about now."

That was his way of addressing the baby without actually addressing the baby. "And I'm assuming that you've already named the baby?" she asked jokingly.

"The surname will be Jenkins."

"Oh, you don't magically know the gender?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "No. Why would I know that?"

"It was a joke."

"Oh. Well, even if I did know the gender, I figured I'd leave the honors of naming the baby to you."

She didn't reply. Instead, she rummaged through the box of food and found something else to eat. "I'm so hungry," she murmured.

"Well, eat up," he urged. "I'm going to go up to the captain's deck and gather the last bit of things that I had brought on board."


	7. Chapter 7

She finished eating a few minutes later, and when he returned, she was asleep. It had probably been ages since she had been able to actually sleep without the fear of being killed. Sherlock could see how much the pregnancy had taken from her and somewhere very deep within, he felt pangs of anger and remorse. She could have gone on living her life, as she had been if he hadn't broken the code on her phone. Perhaps they would have still had dinner and perhaps she might have still ended up getting pregnant, but at least then, neither of them would have had to go to such extremes to make sure that she didn't die.

Though, that alternative would have elicited an astounding amount of questions that Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to answer. Mycroft would meddle even more if he knew that Irene was pregnant—wanting to make sure that he was able to partake in the life of his niece or nephew. Molly Hooper would bite her tongue and make an earnest effort to be cordial about the situation, even though she would be hurt by Sherlock's actions. Lestrade and the rest of the Scotland Yard lot would probably shake their heads and make disparaging comments about what Sherlock's child might turn out to be, while Lestrade would probably insist that Sherlock not bring a baby to a crime scene. Mrs. Hudson would initially be shocked that Sherlock had a child, but would spoil the child rotten, which would be advantageous for all parties.

And then there was John. Sherlock was certain that John wouldn't disapprove of the situation, but he would be a little puzzled by it. Though, knowing John's type, it was likely that John would insist upon being called Uncle John and would, like Mrs. Hudson, adore the child. There would be unnecessary trips to toy stores and to the zoo, and John would keep firmly to the conviction that children didn't belong at crime scenes.

By all accounts, the alternative would have been more favorable. Perhaps Irene would have stayed in London and wanted to include Sherlock in the upbringing of their child. Neither of them were conventional parenting types, the dominatrix and the consulting detective, but Sherlock hoped that by establishing Irene in a life where she didn't have to run about whipping people whilst wearing her battle dress and Louboutins, their child would have a fair chance at being as normal as possible.

Otherwise, Sherlock would have to tell Mycroft about Irene and the baby, simply as a means of maintaining national security. (There was no telling what hell their offspring would raise in the coming years.)

Mildly amused by that thought, he fell asleep on the bed next to Irene.

When Irene woke up the next morning, she wasn't surprised to see Sherlock was asleep and snoring quietly next to her. She could tell from his watch that it was 10 AM, Karachi time. It had been nearly 11 PM when they boarded the boat the previous evening, so she figured they were nearing the border of India and Pakistan.

Her stomach growled, the first time it had done so in a few weeks, and she got up from the bed in search for the food in the box. She smiled when she felt a small movement from the baby. It been a while that she felt somewhat well and content.

Sherlock stirred and opened one of his eyes. "You're awake."

"Yes," she murmured as she pulled a mango from the box. "Where do you reckon we are?"

He glanced at his watch and thought for a moment. "It will be another day before we're in Mumbai. Best case, we'll come into port in about forty-five hours. But we are definitely safer now than we were before."

"Is there anything I can do in the way of showering and changing out of these clothes?" she asked him.

He hummed sleepily. "The silver case has some clothing for you. There is a bathroom just outside the door, and you can take my toiletry case and use what you need to. There is an extra toothbrush in there for you," he explained before he fell back to sleep.

She walked over to the case and opened it. He had packed a traditional Indian tunic and loosely fitting pants for her, with an accompanying sari and sandals. She could tell that he had expected that she be a bit bigger by this point in her pregnancy, which indicated that he truly had put a lot of effort into this endeavor. She pulled the garments out of the case and grabbed his toiletry bag before she walked out of the room and to the bathroom that he had mentioned.

It was a humble bathroom, but all she really needed was a shower, a toilet, and a sink, and this one had all of those. She locked the door behind her and stripped down to nothing. Excitedly, she stepped into the shower and stood under the water for a few minutes, relishing in the feeling of finally being clean.

Finally, about twenty minutes later, she was done showering (after scrubbing herself within an inch of her life) and returned to the room in just a towel. (The bathroom was immediately next door to their room, and she had made certain that there were no people in the hallway before she exited the bathroom. She slipped into the bedroom quietly and set her things down on the floor next to the bed. Sherlock was now awake and was standing at the window, looking out at the ocean around them. "Refreshed?" he asked simply.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she laughed. "Thank you for letting me use your things."

He turned around to look at her. "Sure," he answered absently before turning around.

She dropped the towel on the bed, and was now standing completely nude. "I'm afraid you might have grossly overestimated my sizes," she informed him.

Sherlock moved slightly to look at her, but stopped when he realized that she was nude. He'd seen her naked before, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to see her naked again. She had become very scrawny, to the point that her bones were starting to stick out prominently, when she should have become plumper from the pregnancy. And then there was the matter of that. Sherlock had been able to ignore the fact that she was visibly pregnant because she had been swathed in so much cloth. He wasn't ready to accept it yet.

"Sherlock?" Irene asked as she walked over to him.

She had put on the underwear and the ill-fitting bra he had brought for her. She sensed that he was uncomfortable with this, and for once, wasn't willing to play with him and his insecurities. "Sherlock, it's okay, I'm partially clothed."

He glanced sideways at her and saw only the top of her head. He knew that she wasn't toying with him, so he allowed himself to look down at her face. She was clothed. "Yes?" he answered.

"Does this scare you?"

"Does what scare me?"

"You know…" she hummed, making a vague gesture to her abdomen. "Me being pregnant…"

"I can see your clavicle very clearly. Your neckline is extremely prominent, and I can see each of your vertebrae. Your ribs are prominent, and the only reason your hipbones aren't jutting out more than they are is because of the baby. Even so, it's not a pleasant sight."

She could have let herself be offended by this observation, but she knew Sherlock well enough to know that he didn't mean to offend; his observations were made objectively. "It's a little frightening, isn't it?" she agreed quietly.

His deep exhale was his only reply, so she continued. "But, if it helps any, the baby is still quite active. So, obviously, my body is still taking care of what needs to be cared for."

"You should sleep."

"But I've only just woken up."

"You haven't gotten much rest in the last few months, and the next week will be busy."

"Sherlock, why are you evading my questions?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why?" she demanded.

He turned completely to face her and planted his hands on her bare shoulders. "You want to include me in something that I really shouldn't be included in. You don't want me involved in the upbringing of that child."

"How do you know?"

She was rather surprised by how this topic seemed to keep coming up. When she had informed Sherlock that she was pregnant, she made it clear that she didn't expect him to be involved, but during the past few hours, she had made a few remarks about Sherlock's actions that clearly didn't sit well with him. Irene wasn't sure if she necessarily wanted Sherlock involved in their child's life either—regardless of how beneficial it would be. She decided to hold her tongue and let Sherlock work through this matter himself, but the likelihood of that happening was rapidly diminishing.

"Because you're scared, and fear muddles the mind. Plus, your head is already in the clouds because of the baby and because you're still running on adrenaline from last night. You're hungry, you're unhealthy, and you don't have the foresight to see that I have no business being involved in raising a child," he snapped.

She stared at him with a look of concern plastered on her face. "I don't think that's true."

"It is."

"Sherlock, what are you so scared about?"

"You've almost gotten yourself killed. And I'm not particularly one to be nurturing."

"So you're upset about the baby?"

"No. I'm not upset about the baby. I'm upset because you keep trying to get me to be excited about the baby. I'm indifferent about the baby."

"You're indifferent about the baby?" she echoed. "I beg to differ."

"Beg all you want," he muttered, failing to see the irony in that statement.

"Well," Irene said, turning around to go put on her clothes. "This is awkward."

"No it's not."

"You saved my life, Sherlock. Why would you save my life?"

He didn't answer.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you everyone for your lovely comments and all the favorites! It's exciting to log into my email and receive all of this positive feedback. As you can probably tell, Irene has been added as a character through the system, so I've updated the character settings for the story.

Regardless, I'll end my rambling here and move on to the next chapter. Enjoy!

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><p>Irene went out onto the deck of the boat and sat watching the ocean. As much as she tried not to think about her previous encounter with Sherlock, it was all she could think about. He was a stubborn man, rooted in justice and self-awareness, but these were the things that hindered his ability to admit why he had actually come to Irene's aid. He had known about the baby, and maybe this had been why he had been inclined to come swooping in with a plan and the means to execute it, but she couldn't be absolutely certain. She almost hoped that he would come up on deck looking for her, but he didn't.<p>

When the sky filled with stars, she walked back to their room and found that he was busy staring at the ceiling. "Is the pattern on the ceiling something of interest?" she asked lightheartedly upon entering the room and sitting down on the bed.

He didn't react to her lying down on the bed. She had to take a more direct approach. She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. "Come on, you've got to come see this," she urged as she clamored off of the bed.

Begrudgingly, he followed her, never letting go of her hand as she dragged him through the hallways of the ship until they reached the deck. "Look at the stars," she breathed.

She settled into the spot between two coiled up ropes and the lifeboats and leaned back against the side of the boat. Sherlock stared at her, but eventually sank down next to her and clasped his hands in his lap. "I suppose this is nice," he murmured.

"You never see this many stars in London," Irene added. "This isn't nice, this is extraordinary."

He snorted. "That's your definition of extraordinary? Stars?"

"Yes."

"Okay then," he agreed unconvincingly.

She glanced over at him and saw that there was a small smile on his face. "You secretly like the stars."

"I never said I didn't. I said they were nice."

"But they're more than nice."

"Right, you said that they're extraordinary, which I don't agree with."

"Why?"

"Because there are a great deal of things that are extraordinary that aren't really extraordinary. You know what is absolutely extraordinary? Two cells. Two cells that can somehow create more cells that can continue to make more cells and sustain a lot more cells. That's extraordinary."

"You're talking about procreation."

"Exactly."

"So you're not indifferent about the baby. That's why you came to Karachi."

He was silent, reluctant to acknowledge her remark. "You're interesting. And assuming that the child is anything like you, losing one interesting person is a waste; losing two interesting people is a devastation."

She laughed softly. "I suppose that's the closest you'll ever come to saying that you're capable of love."

"It's not that I'm incapable of loving, it's just that I choose not to."

"You choose not to love."

"In case you haven't noticed, there aren't many people I tolerate in my life."

"And you're suggesting that I'm one of them?"

"It wasn't a suggestion."

Now she was confused. This wasn't making any sense. Then again, there were few things that he said that made sense to her when he wasn't talking about a case. "Physiologically speaking, there is a need to protect one's own. Instinctively, I protect those closest to me. Mrs. Hudson, John, and others. It makes it easy for my heart to betray my mind, because now I have to take into consideration kin and how that will impact cases, safety, and other matters that I shouldn't have to consider kin for."

"Sherlock, don't baffle me with the bull-shit. It's obvious that you're starting to realize that you care about at least the baby, if not me as well."

"I don't care. Caring is not an advantage."

"Yes it is. It is for me and the baby," she answered quietly, laying her hand to rest lightly on her bump.

"Ugh, sentiment," he grumbled before crossing his arms and staring up at the sky.

Eventually, Irene fell asleep and ended up snuggling against Sherlock for warmth. Since he was getting chilly too, he picked her up and carried her back to their room, where he put her down on the bed and put the covers over her. He laughed to himself at how bizarre this situation was; sneaking a woman out of a country and running for their lives to ensure that she still had one. And maybe it was true that he did care about Irene and the baby, despite the fact that he didn't know why.


	9. Chapter 9

As predicted, they reached the port sometime during the night, a few hours ahead of schedule. Sherlock woke first, finding that Irene was curled up against him again, with her head on his shoulder. Her hands were balled into fists that she held up against her chest, as if she were preparing to box Sherlock in her sleep. Based on the state of which her clothes were in, bunched up and twisted awkwardly around her scrawny figure, he inferred that she had had a restless night. Proving his point, she moved in her sleep, bringing herself closer to him and murmuring something, sounding afraid.

She let out a shuddery breath and gripped at Sherlock's shirt, still completely asleep. He realized that she was crying, having a bad dream, which made him strangely sad. He moved his arm carefully so that he could half-hug her as a means of comfort. This seemed to do the trick to calm her down.

It was still early and the sun had only just start to begin its ascent into the sky, but with what little light there was, the entire room was visible. Sherlock hated how normal it seemed for Irene to be in bed with him (it always seemed normal), practically lying on top of him. The more it happened, the easier and easier it became for him to accept it.

Her breathing, constant and deep, made it more than blatantly obvious that her belly was exposed. The more he tried to ignore it, the more he couldn't help but think about it. He'd been sickened by how many impending fathers he'd encountered seemed so obsessed with the "baby bump", as so many of them had put it. Being one of those people was never a concern for Sherlock; the likelihood of him having sex, let alone successfully propagating the species, had always been extremely low. Despite all of this, he found himself transfixed on a swath of skin that could easily be covered by both of his hands.

Self-restraint was a beautiful thing that he wasn't sure if he could maintain.

He felt himself becoming one of those people, bewildered by a perfectly natural occurrence, so convinced that this was the first time this had ever happened in human history, conveniently forgetting the fact that there was proof— at least 7 billion cases— that this had happened currently walking the planet. He attributed this strange feeling to physiological and psychological instinct: his offspring was in there, he knew that this was his offspring in there, and therefore, it was instinct to want to connect with said offspring.

Surprisingly, that was all the rationale that was needed for Sherlock to act upon is curiosity.

Her skin was as he had remembered: smooth, soft, and warm. He hoped his hands weren't too cold, which might wake her up. If he were to prod around, he would have been able to find her hipbone and feel most of its contour through her skin. From where he had his hand, he could tell that he wasn't actually anywhere near the baby since the area below his hand felt hollow.

When Irene moved his hand so that it was closer to where the baby was, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been caught. "Your hands are freezing," she mumbled into his shoulder. "Besides, there's no need to be shy."

"Sorry," he replied quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Trying a cop a feel while I'm asleep, huh?" she laughed sleepily.

"No. Merely acting on a curiosity."

"You're secretly a sappy git, aren't you?"

"Don't tell John. He'll have me institutionalized."

He could feel her laughing, but she didn't laugh loudly. "It's fine. You're not going to break me. Though, unfortunately, it doesn't seem as though there's a whole lot going on down there right now. Probably sleeping."

She let out a yawn and stretched her legs against Sherlock's. She had deftly woven her legs between his during the night, so when she stretched out her toes, she tickled his legs. Before Sherlock could move to get up, she let out a hum of contentment, closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest. "Irene, we have to get up," he informed her.

"No," she answered, her voice muffled by his chest.

"Irene, our flight leaves in ten hours and we still need to get over to the airport and get checked in."

"Ten hours? That's enough time."

"Yes, but we'll need all of that time to get off of the boat and get to the airport and get through Customs and get going."

"Why rush?"

"Irene, are you serious? We have very little leeway now. We're almost to Darwin, and there, you can sleep."

"But I won't have you in Darwin. And you're a wonderful pillow, so it's a shame to give that up this soon."

"I'm not a pillow, and would you stop doing that thing with your toes!"

She sat up, planting her hand on his chest and holding herself up to look at him. "What?" she asked innocently.

"That… tickling thing."

She knew what he was talking about. "You mean this?" she asked coyly.

He sighed and moved away from her. He rolled off of the bed and started gathering up their belongings. "Oh, come on… it was just a bit of fun!" she protested.

"Irene, I can't express how severe this situation is. We have one chance to make this work. Only one, and you're busy… tickling me with your toes. That sort of thing does very little to help get things pulled together."

"I'm just trying to keep the situation light," she sniffed.

"Well, please refrain for the time being. You will need to dress in the outfit I provided."

"I'm wearing it."

"All of it," Sherlock clarified.

She realized that she was only wearing the tunic. "What happened to my pants?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "I suppose you tired of pants for a while."

"What?"

"You took them off at some point during the night. I don't know where they went or why you took them off, but you did."

"Are you trying to produce an alibi so it doesn't seem like you were the one who took my pants off?"

He stared at her pointedly. "Please get dressed."

"I don't want to."

"Irene…" he sighed.

She broke out into a wide grin and sat up. "I'm only poking fun at you. Don't get worked up about it."

Irene got out of the bed and pulled the tunic down over her backside, so that the hem skimmed her upper thighs. "You're picturing me naked, aren't you?"

He scoffed. "Hardly."

"Well, that confirms it. You're definitely picturing me naked."

"Please just get dressed so we can head to the airport."


	10. Chapter 10

After what seemed like ages of getting across town via a very small car, they arrived at the airport. Sherlock was pleased to see that Irene's documentation was serving them well as they breezed through check-in and security. "What is your alias, you know, to keep Mycroft from tracing you?" Irene asked after they had checked the single suitcase.

"Not relevant."

"Of course it's relevant. What should I be calling you on the plane?"

"Sherlock is fine."

"Oh god… you've done something stupid, haven't you? It's probably some even more obscure name than the one you've already been punished with, isn't it?"

"Ire—Ellie. Let's not discuss this here."

"So that's it? We're going to start things like this?"

"It certainly makes things more convincing," he muttered.

"Oh, and what is that supposed to mean?" she retorted.

"Paul Jenkins."

"What?"

"Paul Jenkins. You asked what my alias is. Paul Jenkins."

"We're married?" she squeaked. "Unless you've gone and made yourself my brother…"

"Don't be ridiculous. Marriage is the most logical answer. Certainly provides an easy answer for all the unwarranted questions you're going to be getting from nosy old blue-haired ladies, doesn't it?"

"Oh, and what am I supposed to tell them?"

"Military. Naval officer."

"You would go for something ridiculous like that."

"You're going to be living in a port city with a prominent naval presence and influence. You're going to be raising a child on your own, and people are going to wonder why. If your husband is in the service, it's easily explained as to why you're raising a child on your own."

"What if I decide to date?"

"Well, that's your prerogative."

They continued walking to their terminal in silence. "How long have we been married?" Irene finally asked quietly.

"Based on our body language, I'd say that it's most convincing to say that we've been married for three years, together for three or four."

"An old married couple."

"Certainly bicker like one."

She snorted with laughter. "No, we fight like intellectual equals who are so wired with passion and fire and too many thoughts to handle."

"Some married couples bicker like that."

"I suppose you're right about that. But you're insane otherwise."

"I can't tell if you're being genuine or if you're humoring me."

"Ah… Mr. Jenkins, we'll never know that one, will we?" she hummed.

He rolled his eyes. As they kept walking, Irene discreetly grabbed his hand and laced her fingers through his. Sherlock said nothing about this, choosing only to look down at their intertwined hands pointedly. Irene had hoped for some cheeky remark about her taking liberties, but was content to just keep walking as they were. Anything to keep the fantasy alive, she supposed.

When they were seated on the plane, Sherlock took out a book and started to read while Irene stared out the window. "How would you have proposed?" she asked him as the plane started taxiing down the runway.

His attention was broken. "Sorry?" he asked innocently.

"How would you have proposed? People are going to want to know."

"Oh."

He closed the book around his index finger, temporarily marking his place. "Tell them that I did it the normal way."

"What's the normal way? They're going to want details."

"And by they, you mean you."

"Sure."

He smirked. "You would be the sort to want details."

"Are you going to keep mocking me, or are you going to give me a good story?"

Irene stared at him pointedly, clasping her hands over her belly. "I suppose you haven't bothered to get a ring either, have you?"

"You do realize that it's just a story, right?" he asked quietly, leaning into her.

"This is my life, Sherlock. You've gone to so much trouble to make it good, right down to making yourself my husband on paper. Perhaps you can substantiate a little bit of the details and make it more than just…"

"Knowing you, it was showy. You wouldn't have it any other way. It had to be done perfectly, somehow involving a laser system and a harness…"

"Of course you would make it out to be a 007 movie," she sighed.

"Okay, how about you make up the story then?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you clearly had something in mind when you brewed this all up."

"Irene, I looked at a map and figured out, geographically, where you would thrive. I took into consideration job opportunities, the housing market, schools, and strategic locations nearby. Once I had that figured out, I then thought about what would make the most sense contextually, why you would be there. Once I had that established, I took into consideration our current situation, and why you'd be there by yourself and why I wouldn't be there, even though I would still have a presence in your life. Putting that all together, I determined that you would be married, and in order to keep questions at bay, I established an identity for myself that would concur with your story. There were no extraneous details added to that. There was no story to build up to our marriage. All you need to know is that we are, for all intents and purposes, married. You can fill in the details later."

"You looked at schools?" she asked him quietly, humbled by his abrasive explanation for why he couldn't just come up with a story of how he would ask her to marry him.

He flipped his book back open. "Yes."

"Why?"

"It's a shame when a brilliant mind is wasted on a subpar education."

"You do care."

He ignored her and kept reading. It was easy to ignore Irene's accusations of him caring when he was reading.


	11. Chapter 11

They arrived in Darwin the following morning. A car took them to the residence in Stuart Park, just outside Darwin. Both Irene and Sherlock were exhausted, but Sherlock was pleased that they had gotten to Darwin without any problems. Once the cabbie had been paid and he had pulled away, Sherlock and Irene stood, staring at an apartment building.

"Your condo is on the second floor," Sherlock explained as he pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and started walking towards the front door.

"Do I rent?"

"No."

"I own it? How?"

"I managed to pull a few strings. Your financial portfolio has been reallocated to your new identity. You're now a homeowner."

Irene was impressed. Apparently, associating with the Holmes brother had its benefits. "Shall we go in?" she asked him.

She took the keys from his hand and let herself in the front door. The foyer was large and bright, which she found to be particularly aesthetically appealing. There was a nice stairway, spacious and well kept. It was obvious that Sherlock had chosen this place based on what he had seen of her home in Belgravia. As they reached the second floor, Sherlock pointed down a hallway. "To the right," he instructed.

The case made a small whirring noise as it was dragged along the hallway. From what Irene could tell, she would have one or two neighbors, but she didn't mind. The building was nice, and was close enough to the city so accessibility wasn't an issue. She suspected there was a very good school nearby, but she opted not to ask.

"2B," Sherlock said quietly as he indicated to which door he was referring.

"Surprised it's not 221B," Irene hummed.

"I'm just one big surprise, aren't I?"

"Not always."

"Shame."

She slid the key into the slot and turned the knob. As the door clicked open and she stepped in, she was astounded to see that there was already furniture in the space. "Was this here?"

"Previous owner died, and the place was sold, fully furnished. I've taken the liberty of having some of your belongings shipped here. I believe those will be arriving in the next few days."

Irene spun around to gape at him. "You're impossible."

He furrowed his brow and looked puzzled. "But that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Of course it's good!" she exclaimed as she clasped her hands and grinned. "I just can't possibly imagine how you must have done it!"

"You don't go through life like I have and not pick up a few tricks along the way," he hummed as he walked through the house, examining the place.

"You did this on purpose."

"Yes, that's correct."

"No… Sherlock, you did this, you chose this place with a very…"

"Irene, if you're insinuating that I considered the child in the decision, you're mistaken. Sorry to break it to you, but I found a flat that was within your price range, and I purchased it in your name."

"Where's the closest school?"

"Somewhere around."

"And is it private or a state school?"

"Private."

"Ranking?"

"Top fifteen."

"How top of top fifteen?"

"Three."

"Right, and the park, it's across the street. Nice park, lots of space to run about."

"Merely coincidental."

"Crime rates?"

"As far as I know, you'll be the only criminal around here."

She laughed. "So Hamish will grow up in a good place?" she asked him.

He stared at her through the kitchen doorway. "Who's Hamish?"

"The baby. If it's a boy, I suppose."

"Why are you referring to the child as Hamish?"

"I thought you'd want to name the child after someone close to you. John suggested Hamish."

"I'm going to go check out the garage. You keep looking around."

"Why don't you want to discuss the baby?"

"I'm not going to be involved, so why waste my time?"

"Since when were you not going to be involved?"

"Irene, I'm going to be in London. You're going to be here."

"Oh, so you're just dumping me here?"

"Irene… please tell me that you weren't thinking that I'd somehow run away from my life and… become domestic."

"You've indicated that you have some interest. The house, the school, the strategic location of Darwin? Hell, you've even created an alias that coincides with mine!" Irene exclaimed.

"Not because I want to be involved."

Sherlock stormed out of the room, leaving Irene to explore the rest of her new home. Instead of acquainting herself with the condo, she retired to the bedroom and crawled into the bed. She didn't even care that the sheets might not be fresh. She was exhausted and hurt by Sherlock's vacillation.

The following morning, Irene found Sherlock in the kitchen making coffee. "I know you don't want any of this, and it's wrong of me to expect you to want this. I appreciate all the trouble you've gone to in order to make sure that the transition from my old life to this one is as smooth as possible. For that reason, I was hoping that you could be here when the baby is born. You're the only person I have, and that scares me. I can raise the baby on my own, but I want a hand to hold when I'm having the baby…"

Her voice trailed off and she cast her eyes down at the ground. "That's fine," Sherlock answered.

Irene glanced up at Sherlock in surprise. "Are you serious? You'll be here?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," she murmured as she walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his torso.

He wasn't a complete monster. No, he was just a deeply complex man who had different ways of approaching normal human activities, such as this particularly uncomfortable situation that had arisen with Irene.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: So, this chapter got to be really long. But, I don't think many of you will mind that. Thank you for all of the lovely reviews and favorites. I really appreciate the feedback and that everyone is enjoying the story.

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><p>True to his word, Sherlock returned to Darwin at the start of the last week of October. Irene had reliably informed him that their offspring had not decided to make an appearance yet, so there was still a very good chance that he would be present for the arrival. This, of course, pleased Irene, who was starting to get cold feet about raising a child on her own.<p>

Almost as if on cue, Irene woke Sherlock up during the middle of the night the day after he arrived. They proceeded to drive to the local hospital, where Irene delivered a five-pound, 3 ounce little girl. She was small, as expected, but she came out screaming loudly, assuring everyone that she was just fine. The doctor handed the scissors over to Sherlock, offering him the chance to cut the cord like any typical new father would. He did so reluctantly, and the little girl was handed up to her mother.

Twenty minutes later, the nurses and doctors were out of the room, leaving Irene, Sherlock, and the infant alone. "Good work," Sherlock said quietly as he stood awkwardly at Irene's bedside.

Irene looked up at him with a look of amazement. "Good work? I go through almost fifteen hours of labor and all you have to say at the end of it is good work?" she squeaked.

"Your craftsmanship is impeccable," he added.

"Oh, why can't you just be normal for once and just say that your daughter is gorgeous?" Irene sighed.

"She'll likely have your physical appearance."

"Sherlock, so help me god, if you don't start showing even a slight amount of emotion in response to the arrival of your daughter—yes, she's definitely yours; that chin is undeniably yours—I may have to hurt you," Irene hissed.

He smirked. "I believe that was how we ended up in this position."

Irene sighed and turned her attention back to her daughter, who was looking in the general direction of her father. "I think she likes your voice," Irene remarked. "It's a deeper register than mine, and because you haven't been present for the last few months, she's reacting to the different sound."

"Irene, why are you so adamant that I need to have some sort of emotional reaction or connection to her? You know that I don't do emotions."

"But she's your daughter. Even if you don't do emotions, I know that you feel at least the slightest amount of affection towards her simply because she's biologically related to you. Just as you maintain a minimal degree of affection towards Mycroft because he's your brother because he has been the only person in the world who is connected to you by default. Until now, at least."

Sherlock scowled at Irene. "Are you claiming that because she has half of my DNA that I automatically should love or care about her?"

"Yes."

"I fear for her then, because I cannot guarantee such a thing."

"You have already picked out a school for her! You chose that house knowing that it would be her first home. I don't think you're consciously aware of what being a father means, but you've already started by ensuring that, firstly, we're both alive; secondly, we have somewhere to live; thirdly, she will have the best opportunities as possible; and fourthly, you've done all of this, arranging it all so that you might be able to play a part, albeit small, in her upbringing."

"And you've reached the extent to which I will demonstrate any sort of affection or indicate any sort of caring."

"That's what you think," Irene murmured as she brushed her thumb across their daughter's cheek.

He sighed and sat down in the chair next to the bed. His brow was furrowed as he examined the child. She had traces of downy hair that would likely darken as she became older. Her growth had been compromised during the crucial months of development that Irene had spent in Karachi, but he was confident that she would quickly catch up with her peers. Her interest in his voice (she was still staring in his general direction) indicated that she had probably already surpassed her peers in intelligence.

It wasn't for another five hours that Sherlock was able to hold his daughter for the first time. He had been more than happy to let Irene bond with the infant while he stood on the sidelines, but when the nurses brought the baby in to be fed and found that Irene was dead asleep and determined that even if they were to wake her, she would be too weak to feed, the nurses suggested that Sherlock try his hand at giving the baby a bottle of formula.

He had been reluctant at first, but decided that since it was likely that he would have to hold and feed the baby at some point during the remainder of his stay in Darwin, he would take this opportunity to learn how to do it properly. The last thing he wanted was Irene to harangue him about not doing these things properly.

The nurse placed the little girl into his arms, indicating how she needed to be supported. The little girl had been fussy when the nurse brought her in, but once she was in her father's arms, she quieted down and stared at him intently. Based on what Sherlock had briefly researched on the matter of infants on the flight from London, he remembered that at birth, infants could only see things that fell within the distance of a foot and a half or so, the distance from themselves to their mother's face. Sherlock determined that she was able to focus on his face fairly well.

He hadn't expected that she would feel so light in his arms. Despite being so small, she was strong. Her limbs flailed around as she acquainted herself with her new surroundings and she made little squeaking noises. As much as Sherlock was irritated by it, he couldn't help but find this rather endearing. She was like a little cat.

The association he had made when he likened his child to a cat was further reinforced once he was feeding her. She guzzled greedily, obviously starving after being apart from Irene for a few hours, making mewling noises as she ate. Sherlock laughed to himself as he watched her starting to fall asleep. Was her mind already working as fervently as his always did, concocting elaborate schemes like her mother?

As she started to fall asleep, the nurse helped him burp her. When she was burped and was ready to go back to the nursery, Sherlock brushed his hand over her soft hair and quietly murmured, "Good Kitty," before letting her go.

He sincerely hoped that Irene hadn't seen him demonstrate such affections. He didn't want her to expect him to fall into a pattern of demonstrating affection.

Early the next morning, the baby was brought into the room again. Irene was starting to wake up; she had been soundly asleep for nearly twelve hours as Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep. The nurse placed the baby into Sherlock's arms, since he was more awake than Irene. He glanced down at his daughter (he was starting to accept that he now had a daughter, after knowing about said daughter's existence for about eight months) and gave an almost-smile

The overwhelming impression he had of his daughter that morning was that she seemed very angry. Sherlock couldn't blame her; it was warm where she had been, and quite honestly, there wasn't much point to being outside of the womb when she was so small. It wasn't like she could go travelling the world and take it all in. Her eyesight wouldn't be very useful for at least another few weeks, and at that point, she still wouldn't remember anything. She couldn't read, she couldn't really understand language, and she couldn't understand the nuances of society and culture. He understood why his daughter seemed so angry.

But beyond the scowl that Little Miss Grumpy Kitty (the nickname would have to do, because she didn't have a name yet) wore, she was rather endearing. Once her circulation was in proper working order, she probably would have rosy little cheeks and the same alabaster skin that her parents had. Since he and Irene had such similar coloring, it was difficult to discern whom their daughter would look more like. It was likely that the infant would also have dark, curly hair and lightly colored eyes. Other physical appearance markers, such as her nose, possible birthmarks, freckles that would develop later, were still too vague to anticipate.

There was no doubt that Little Miss Grumpy Kitty would be too clever for her own good, and would make thorough use of her intelligence to get through life, though Sherlock hoped that she would decide to take a different career path than her mother. Irene would probably pass along the finesse of charming people as a means of manipulation at an early age by posing Sherlock as the baby's first victim. If she took after her mother in both personality and appearance, and took after Sherlock in intelligence, this little girl would grow up to be an immeasurable force to reckon with. They might as well just ship her off to Mycroft now, so he could train his replacement.

Irene stirred in her bed, rolling onto her side so she faced Sherlock, slowly coming out her sleep. Her breathing changed, and she seemed to unconsciously recognize that she was being watched. Slowly, she opened one eye and registered her surroundings. "How long has she been here?" she slurred.

"Not long. Do you want to hold her?" he asked.

"I'm still too groggy and drugged up. I'm afraid I'd drop her," Irene murmured.

He smiled genuinely and stood up from his chair, making sure not to disturb Little Miss Grumpy Kitty (the nickname was starting to seem too long; she really needed a name) as he did so. Irene struggled to sit up, but eventually managed to sit up in the bed with the help of Sherlock. Once Irene was situated, Sherlock handed the baby over.

"Since when did you become a pro at this?" Irene laughed as she watched Sherlock attend to the baby with inscrutable care.

"I'm a quick study," he muttered as he sat down next to Irene's legs on the bed.

Irene brushed her daughter's hand with her index finger and gazed down at the child with an expression of infinite wonder. There really was no reason to talk, so they didn't.

A few minutes later, Irene glanced up and saw that Sherlock wore a vacant expression. "I was thinking we could name her Adele," Irene murmured.

He didn't respond, so she reached over and nudged his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock hummed and flicked his eyes to Irene. "Yes?"

"Adele? How does that sound?"

"Adele… the baby?"

"Yes. Adele Jenkins."

"That's fine."

"You don't have any opinion?"

"I said that it was fine. That's an opinion, is it not?"

"But you don't have any suggestions?"

"I told you, you get to name her. You've done most of the work, after all."

"I've done all the work," Irene corrected him.

"So you get to name her."

"Right, but you don't have any names that you like?"

"Irene, I don't really focus on things like this."

"She needs a middle name. What is the first female name that comes to mind?"

"Irene… I don't know… Gertrude?"

"Gertrude is the first name that comes to mind?"

Irene eyed him warily. "You're clearly sleep-deprived."

"You try sleeping in that chair," he grumbled.

Irene ignored this remark. "Come on, Sherlock… let's try this again."

"Aveline."

"Aveline?"

"French."

"For what?"

"Not sure, but based on the stem, it might have something to do with birds."

"Did you know an Aveline?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She died."

"Sherlock…"

"She was a good friend of mine when I lived in France."

"How did she die?"

"Brutally murdered by her father."

"Oh god…"

"So I guess Aveline is not on the table?"

"No. Not at all. Another name, but not one that our daughter would share with someone who is both someone you know and dead."

Sherlock sighed. He supposed he could suggest his mother's name: Sophelia. Adele Sophelia. It didn't sound terrible.

"Sophelia."

"Ophelia, as in Ophelia from Hamlet?"

"No… Sophelia, as in Sophia and Ophelia put together in a portmanteau," Sherlock explained in a bored tone.

"Sophelia?"

"Yes."

"That sounds like a Holmesian name if I ever did hear one," Irene muttered. "Let me guess… mother's name? Was your father named Hamlet or Hamleterion or something like that?"

"No, surprisingly, Father's name was James. Profoundly normal for being one to marry and produce people with absurd names."

"Keeping family tradition?" Irene asked with a smile.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "No. Adele is a normal name."

"Adele Sophelia?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Irene answered honestly. "I like it. It's different, but not too different."

"The cruel nicknames won't be handed to the kids. They'll have to be clever to come up with them," Sherlock added. "Nothing too out of the ordinary with Adele Jenkins."

"Well, not the name, at least. Everything else will be remarkably out of the ordinary for Adele Jenkins," Irene laughed.

Their attention was once more pulled to the newly named Adele. The little girl had snuggled against her mother, her light blue eyes almost closed. She was going to be extraordinary, that was for certain.

The following day, they took Adele home. Irene had been terrified of taking Adele out of the hospital, but Sherlock had acted as the voice of reason as he figured out how to put the car seat into the back seat of Irene's car. "What if it's done incorrectly?" Irene asked frantically as she held Adele to her chest, examining Sherlock's work.

"Elizabeth, four people have verified that it has been put into the car correctly," Sherlock sighed, using her alias in front of the hospital staff.

"But what if they're wrong?" Irene asked, completely failing to notice that all four of the people in question were standing near them.

"They're not," he grumbled as he lifted the car seat with Adele from Irene's lap.

Fortunately for all parties involved, Irene was not driving. She was a wired mess, fussing over every little noise Adele made as Sherlock drove them home. As soon as they reached the flat, Sherlock parked the car and helped Irene out of the car, taking the car seat from her. If Irene's actions had indicated anything to Sherlock, it had been that the remainder of the week was going to be long, and it would take a while before Irene fell into a pattern of things. He almost worried about her mental state and briefly questioned whether he should leave Irene and Adele so soon.

When he remembered that there were things to do back in London, people and cases to get back to, he quickly resolved that staying with Irene and the baby was simply not an option.

The first few days were rough. Irene was still sore from the delivery and Adele wasn't feeding properly. This led to tears from both Irene and Adele, and at one point, Sherlock. (Sherlock had made several inappropriate remarks that had resulted in Irene screaming at him, and since he too was exhausted, his shields were down and his nearly non-existent emotional side was revealed. It hadn't been a particularly proud moment for anyone.)

Eventually, the day before Sherlock went home, things started to calm down. The morning had started with Adele screaming at four in the morning, after sleeping for two hours. Neither Irene nor Sherlock had slept much in the previous days, but Sherlock had a higher tolerance for not sleeping. So, at four in the morning, when Adele, the ever-effective alarm clock, woke up, Sherlock rolled out of the bed, still fully clothed, and staggered over to the cot in the middle of Irene's room.

He picked her up and shuffled out of the room, trying all of the tactics that the books had suggested for calming down infants. But the books were written for parents with average children, so they weren't necessarily the best source for how to calm down Adele. "Kitty," he sighed as he patted her back in a rhythmic pattern, just as the books suggested.

She kept screaming, though the decibels at which she did so seemed to decrease somewhat. Any efforts to continue to calm her down seemed futile, so Sherlock just kept walking around the flat in the same manner that he figured every new father would. Except, he wasn't necessarily a new father. He was just some male figure who would briefly partake in Adele's life before Irene found someone better suited to the job.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It made him jump; no one had called or texted him since nearly a week before. Carefully, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and saw that it was from John, asking about the case that he had gone to investigate.

Sherlock had told John that he was going to Japan to investigate a case regarding a Japanese actress who had mysteriously died after a show to promote a movie she had just finished. Though Sherlock had no intention of actually investigating this case, it had served him well.

In a flash of brilliance, Sherlock glanced down at his daughter, who was still crying, and realized he could use his cases to his advantage. Though John was always good about trying to keep up with Sherlock's analyses of the cases they worked on, it wasn't always evident that John found as much interest in the cases as Sherlock did. And, as Irene had pointed out shortly after Adele was born, Sherlock's voice always caught Adele's attention. Maybe if he were to talk through the case to Adele, maybe she'd go to sleep.

Sherlock had never been so thrilled that his analyses bored someone to sleep when Adele finally fell asleep ten minutes later. Once she was asleep, Sherlock walked around for a little bit longer to make sure that she stayed asleep, but then he sat down in a chair and stared off into space.

Three hours later, Irene walked out into the living room and found them both asleep. She laughed to herself when she saw how uncanny the resemblance was. Sherlock's remark about Irene's craftsmanship certainly was true, but the same could be said for his.

Instead of waking him up and risking that Adele would follow suit, she padded out of the room and went back to bed. Before doing so, however, she grabbed Sherlock's phone and snapped a photo.

Sometime after noon, Irene walked back out into the living room and found that Sherlock and Adele were both awake. She could hear Sherlock quietly muttering as he fed Adele, who was staring at him. "Hi," Irene murmured as she gently combed her fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I guess you've got the Midas touch?"

"Hum?"

"She was dead asleep when I came out here a few hours ago. You were too, for that matter."

"Oh… she bores easily. Good luck with that," he answered.

"How did you do it? Seriously, tell me everything," Irene ordered as she sat down next to Sherlock and leaned against his shoulder.

"Read the newspaper to her. That's the only thing I can figure. I would suggest that you talk about your line of work, but somehow, that just doesn't seem appropriate for an infant."

He smirked to himself as he continued watching Adele, who was watching him. Irene smiled at both of them. "You're wishing you can take her home with you, aren't you?"

"Hardly. You've been here for the last week. I've only just regained my hearing."

"Well, you two are certainly two peas in a pod. Two very odd peas in a very absurd pod."

"Could you imagine John's face if I showed up with a baby?" Sherlock laughed.

"Oh lord… you might do him in if that were to happen," Irene agreed.

Adele's eyes started to close, at which point, Sherlock took the bottle from her mouth and brought her up to his shoulder to burp her. "You're a pro at this," Irene observed.

"You'll get it eventually," Sherlock assured her, sensing that she was feeling somewhat inadequate in comparison to him.

"How do you know?"

"Maternal instincts started kicking in with you a few months ago. Sometimes it just takes a little while for things to settle in completely."

Irene didn't have anything to say in response to that. She just hoped he was right.

When Sherlock left for the airport, Irene and Adele were asleep on her bed. Quietly, he took his bags out into the hallway before coming back into the room and placing a kiss on Irene's forehead and on Adele's cheek. He was a little bothered by the fact that he didn't know when he'd be back, if he'd be back.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock turned up on Irene's doorstep two weeks after his "death" from St. Bart's Hospital and six weeks after Adele was born. He had a small suitcase and a laptop case slung over his shoulder. He hadn't told Irene that he was coming to Darwin. Explanations would come later.

He knocked on the door, hoping that she was in. When she answered the door, much to his relief, she looked confused. "Sherlock… why are you here?" she asked quietly.

He noted that she looked exhausted. Her hair was lighter and pulled up onto the top of her head. She was wearing eyeglasses and had on a pair of pajama pants and a loose-fitting t-shirt. In her hand, she held a baby-monitor. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sure you've heard."

She nodded silently. "John's blog."

"I'm alive. I'm not some apparition."

"I know you're not an apparition."

"Can I come in?"

Irene examined him. He looked as exhausted as she felt. In a change from his usual uniform, he wore a pair of dark jeans and a lightly colored shirt that he hadn't bothered to tuck in. His hair was shorter, unwashed and unruly, and it was blaringly obvious that he was distraught. She nodded and grabbed his free hand with hers. "Addie's asleep, so you'll need to be quiet," she warned him. "I'll make you some tea."

She led him into the apartment and hurried off into the kitchen to start a kettle of water. He looked around and tried to piece together what he had missed of the first few weeks of Adele's life. "How are you coping?" he asked as he wandered into the kitchen.

"Things are finally settling down. I've been interviewing nannies for Addie, but so far, none of them have quite fit. I can't find someone whom I trust."

"But they're mostly older women, no?"

"Not necessarily," Irene answered as she shuffled through a cabinet looking for some unknown thing. "English or green?"

"English, please," Sherlock answered.

She procured a box of teabags and set it down on the counter next to her. "How is John?"

"Not sure. I've only been able to trail him a few times, but I knew that if I was going to ever make any progress of taking Moriarty down, I had to get out of Britain as quickly as possible."

Something clicked with Irene. Her eyes flashed with realization and she opened her mouth, poised to speak. When she didn't say anything, Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "What?" he asked her.

"I'm sorry to always go back to the point you made about Darwin being a strategic point on a map, but did you need Darwin for this?"

He shook his head. "But it is convenient, isn't it?"

Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen and retreated to the living room. He fell into a chair with a sigh and he closed his eyes. "I don't need an asylum; I'll be out of your hair tomorrow morning. I just need a place to do up some blueprints, if you will. Plus, I need someone to dye my hair. It sounds difficult, and I need someone who pays careful attention to his or her appearance to help me disguise myself. Since you're the master… mistress if you will, of disguise, I need your help."

Irene leaned against the doorjamb and examined Sherlock. "You'd be a good ginger," she remarked. "You've got the right coloring."

This made no sense to Sherlock, but he trusted Irene's judgment. "Okay, we'll do that."

"You'll need to bleach your hair first, of course. The color won't take unless your hair is considerably lighter than it is now. Fortunately, there's a chemist down the street that sells various dyes. If you can look after Addie while I hop out for a few minutes, I'll go get what we'll need," she informed him as she strode across the room towards the bedroom.

"Um… sure," he muttered as she walked out of the room.

Moments later, she returned wearing a pair of jeans and heels. Her hair had been brushed back into a proper ponytail, and she appeared to have applied lipstick. Given this appearance, there was no indication that Irene was a relatively new mother, only have given birth six weeks prior. "Big date?" Sherlock laughed.

"You try getting a moment of peace when being the sole provider for an infant," she growled. "Here's the baby-monitor, and she'll be asleep for a while. She shouldn't wake up, but if she does, she enjoys it when people talk to her."

He nodded slowly. He wasn't sure if he liked the thought of being left alone with Adele, but when the trade off was having Irene help him disguise himself, he was willing to spend a few minutes alone in the same apartment as his daughter.

Irene left the flat a minute or so later, and Sherlock became astoundingly aware of how much had changed in the weeks since Adele had been born. There were photos of the little girl all over the walls of the flat, children's books on every table, toys in a basket in the corner of the room, and in the kitchen, there were several lists on the wall. It was apparent that Irene had taken to motherhood quite well, which was rather surprising to Sherlock. He hadn't expected a dominatrix to be the nurturing type.

A few minutes after Irene left the flat, noises came through on the baby-monitor. They weren't of a child crying; instead they were little mewling noises that a happy baby would make. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should go check on Adele or if he should give her the opportunity to fall back asleep. It was only after another minute or so of Adele making her little noises that Sherlock decided to go check on her.

He walked quietly through the apartment to the nursery. He opened the door quietly and heard Adele making the noises, though she quieted when he walked in. "Hi Kitty," he murmured softly and hesitantly.

The little girl was on her back, one foot in her mouth, looking at him. Her light blue eyes were transfixed on him as she examined who this new person was. She was so fixated on him that she forgot about her foot. As her father leaned over the side of the cot and looked down at her, she stared right back at him with the same interest. He laughed when he realized they must have had the same expression on their faces.

He was surprised when she too let out a laugh. Sherlock concluded that Adele's sense of humor must have been pretty inclusive for her to react in such a way. Her ability to discern human emotion was remarkable for such a young child. In fact, Adele's behavior assured Sherlock that she was more than capable of interacting with humans.

Tentatively, he lifted her out of the cot and brought her up to his shoulder. She immediately started grabbing at a rogue curl that stuck out from his ear. Her drool-covered fists grabbed hold of it and she let out a little squeak. She started wriggling around in excitement, making it difficult for Sherlock to hold her properly. He wondered if it was normal for a child her age to be able to have such motor and social skills. Given the evidence, there was very little hope of getting her to go back to sleep.

Because there was very little use in staying in the nursery, Sherlock walked back out to the sitting room and sat down in the chair he had previously sat in. Once he sat down, he realized that Adele had quieted down again. His hair was still firmly within her grasp, but it appeared as though she might fall asleep.

Lo and behold, when Irene returned to the flat, she found Sherlock and Adele both asleep. Smiling, Irene took out her phone and snapped a photo of the dynamic duo. Irene found herself wishing that Sherlock didn't have to leave so abruptly; he might actually find his footing in this whole fatherhood deal if he had enough time to acclimate to it.

A few hours later, Sherlock woke up and realized that he had been asleep for some time. Adele was still sleeping blissfully on her father's shoulder, and even though he left his chair and started moving around, remained so. He carried her into the kitchen, where Irene was sitting at the island, reading a magazine and eating dinner. "How long were you going to let me sleep for?"

"She doesn't fall asleep when people hold her. Never. She gets fidgety and starts panicking. She doesn't even fall asleep when I hold her. But it's something about her father that puts her to sleep. Perhaps she finds you dull," Irene teased.

"Ha, ha," Sherlock replied sardonically.

She smirked. "But seriously; you must have the magic touch."

"Does she cry as much as she did that first week?"

Irene's eyes widened and she nodded dramatically. "Just you wait. Maybe she'll put on a show for you," she answered. "An encore of the first week."

"She only made little noises when I went into the nursery to find that she was awake."

"She makes those noises too. It's usually when she's feeling feisty though. I don't know why she would have fallen asleep right after that. Why don't you go put her in the crib and we'll get your hair dealt with?"

Sherlock carted Adele back to the nursery and carefully placed her back into the crib. He padded out of the room, closing the door partially behind him. When he returned to the kitchen, Irene had everything laid out to dye his hair. "Ready?" she asked him as she gestured for him to sit down.

Several hours later, once he had gone from being a brunette to being a blonde to finally being a redhead, he sat down and started researching online. Irene let him do his work in peace, resorting to her room and going to bed. She knew that Sherlock would probably become a fixture of her household. Irene didn't mind this.


	14. Chapter 14

As Irene predicted, Sherlock did become a part of the household. Everything had developed organically, just falling into place without discussion or requests of any sort. Sherlock obviously felt comfortable coming in and out of the apartment at his leisure, spending some days away from the flat, but always coming back, as if this was his base.

About two months after his arrival, Irene noticed he was spending more and more time at the flat. He had acquired his own computer, so it wasn't because he needed a computer, like he had initially. They had fallen into a pattern of keeping his hair dyed, but that was at regular intervals, so it wasn't because of that either. Irene tried to figure it out over dinner one night (he had shown up with a bag of groceries and had asked if he could make use of the kitchen).

It wasn't until it was time to put Adele to bed that she figured it out. Adele had been fed and burped. She was just sitting in the corner between the arm of the chair and the back of the chair, waiting for her bath. Irene was about to go gather Adele up for the bath when Sherlock swooped in and did this himself. He took her into the kitchen and set everything up to give Adele her bath.

Perplexed, Irene allowed Sherlock to do this by himself. Of course, he was a bit slow to the process, making slight fumbles and accidentally putting too much shampoo on Adele's head. Once he worked through that, he was fine. Since he didn't know Irene was watching him, he talked candidly to Adele about the work that he was doing. Admittedly, any other mother, upon hearing what Sherlock was talking about (the slow process of assassinating members of a large-scale crime web) would be appalled, but Irene knew that this was how Sherlock was bonding with his daughter. By talking about violence.

She almost started crying at the sight of it.

Bath time was done, and Sherlock wrapped Adele in the hooded towel with the cat ears (a sly reference to his nickname for her), and carried her to the nursery. He seemed oblivious to Irene's presence, but she knew better than to think that he could ever be oblivious to something. He simply chose not to acknowledge her presence.

About twenty minutes later, he quietly walked out of the room, closing the door partially, and walked towards the front door. "Are you leaving?" Irene asked him.

He turned around to look at her. "I was planning on it," he answered.

"Where do you go when you leave?"

"Hostel."

"You stay in a hostel?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You might as well just live here. You stay here enough."

"No…it's not safe."

"Sherlock, you've made great progress with taking out strategists. You deserve to stay with people who you know."

He smiled sadly and shook his head. "Not yet. Soon, maybe."

By the end of the week, his belongings were distributed among the flat, apparently there for good.


	15. Chapter 15

For anyone living in the neighborhood of Paul and Elizabeth Jenkins, the Jenkins seemed like perfectly normal people. They were a normal couple with a new daughter, learning how to cope with the new member of their family. Paul worked from home some days, and Elizabeth worked full-time. Their daughter, Adele, seemed to be a well-adjusted child who was adored by both her parents.

Paul and Elizabeth were an attractive couple. They had similar coloring—both had dark hair (though, Paul's hair was more of a dark red than Elizabeth's) and sharp blue eyes that contrasted and complimented their light complexions. Adele was certainly blessed in the looks department. From what people could tell, Paul was highly educated and worked for some high-level organization, perhaps in the military. Elizabeth was well dressed and had an eye for fashion, which made it obvious why she worked in the fashion industry. Together, the English-bred Jenkins family was a very respectable group.

For anyone who actually knew what the Jenkins household was actually like, most of the preconceived notions would be like something dumped into an acid—immediately corroded.

The Jenkins were not married in any sense of the word. Elizabeth was a former dominatrix who had, not even nine months previous, been up to be executed, while Paul was the one who had helped put her there, but also had been the one to spare her life. The Jenkins were both people who were supposed to be dead, but had faked their own deaths to stay alive. And Adele Jenkins was, technically speaking, Adele Adler-Holmes.

There was nothing respectable about this English-bred group. If anything, they were modern-day British convicts being sent off to the penal colony to work towards their freedom.

Regardless, the Jenkins were people you could rely on. Elizabeth was always willing to help out a neighbor with clothing or appearance, and Paul was rather crafty with figuring out small neighborhood mysteries, such as why people would find their bread gone in the morning. (Raccoons were the culprits here.) Adele was a complete sweetheart, who was always smiling whenever her parents took her out for walks in the neighborhood.

One afternoon, Paul was walking Adele through the neighborhood when Mrs. Higgins walked past and stopped him. "Oh, hello Paul!" she called out.

She failed to notice when Paul's face fell when she spoke. He stopped and smiled amicably, knowing that Mrs. Higgins was expecting to see Adele and talk to her. He rolled his eyes when Mrs. Higgins leaned over the side of the pram and started speaking in a horrendously obnoxious tone that is reserved for small dogs, small children, and for some reason, birds.

Adele grinned up at the batty old woman, seeming to intuitively know what this woman was trying to get from her. Mrs. Higgins let out a gleeful cheer and glanced up at Paul, who instantly changed his face to demonstrate that he too was pleased with Adele's reaction. Of course, Mrs. Higgins failed to notice the falseness in Paul's face, and bid him farewell, letting Paul and Adele continue on with their walk. It was important for a father to bond with his child.

On another occasion, Mrs. Higgins ran into Elizabeth while Elizabeth and Adele were taking their walk. Mrs. Higgins leaned over the pram, smiled at Adele, and cheered when Adele smiled back. Instead of letting Elizabeth walk on, uninterrupted, Mrs. Higgins reached out and put her hand on Elizabeth's upper arm. "Dear, you have a lovely child… will we see more of her kind running around in the a few months?" Mrs. Higgins asked, glancing down at Elizabeth's abdomen, searching for a nonexistent bump.

Elizabeth let out an involuntary snort, which caused Mrs. Higgins' brow to furrow. "I'm not sure if I understand?" she explained to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth's face fell slightly as she realized that she had made her reaction too strong. "Oh… no, it's not that we aren't thinking about having another child, let alone being a few months off from having another one… it's just that, Adele's still really young. Having two really little ones running around at the same time just seems insane," Elizabeth answered hastily, hoping that the older woman wouldn't think that her reaction was too rude or out of line.

This answer seemed to appease Mrs. Higgins, who bid Elizabeth farewell, and continued on her way. Instead of continuing her walk with Adele, Elizabeth turned around and walked back up to the flat.

"Sherlock?" Irene called out as soon as the door was closed. "SHERLOCK?"

He poked his head around the corner at the sound of the horror in her voice. "What? What's happened?"

Irene's eyes narrowed and she slipped off her shoes before taking Adele out of the pram. "Mrs. Higgins."

Sherlock laughed and stepped back into the kitchen. "She's just a kind old lady," he insisted, trying not to compare Mrs. Higgins to Mrs. Hudson.

"She asked if we're having another one, while staring at my tummy. I mean… I know I still have a little bit of the baby weight down there, but it's not like I look like I'm pregnant, right?" Irene asked, almost hysterically.

Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen again, this time completely. "What?"

"Do I look pregnant to you?" Irene asked exasperatedly.

"God I hope not," he muttered before stepping back into the kitchen.

Irene set Adele into her saucer and strode quickly into the kitchen behind Sherlock. "I'm serious. Look at me!"

His eyes flicked over at her for the briefest of moments before he returned to his laptop. "Irene, you're fine."

"Obviously not."

"You're going to let a senile old woman who lives downstairs drive you to the point of insanity? Like you said, you haven't lost all the baby weight, but it doesn't matter. You were malnourished for quite a while, so you shouldn't worry about your figure as much."

"Oh, so you're insinuating that I should just let my figure go to hell?"

He sighed and rested his fingers under his chin. "Irene. Why are you doing this?"

"Do I look pregnant to you?" she snapped.

"No!"

"Then why does Mrs. Higgins think I look pregnant?"

"She's partially blind?" he suggested.

Irene threw off her shirt and started unbuttoning her pants. Sherlock's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

She stood in her underwear and bra, with her pants down at her ankles and shirt on the ground. "Look at me."

"Irene, you look fine."

"Compared to how I looked when we first met to what I look like now, would you still find me attractive?"

"We're not having this conversation," Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to the laptop.

Irene shuffled over and snapped the computer shut. "Would you still have dinner with me, now that we've had a child?"

"No."

"What?" she asked, her voice aghast.

"Irene… I was there for the delivery…"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It's rather terrifying."

"What?"

"You know… the whole situation down there. I really shouldn't have fed into that curiosity like you suggested and should have just turned a blind eye to it."

"Oh my god," Irene realized as she blushed furiously. "Oh my god… you were scared by that?"

He looked at her as if she had truly lost her mind. "Hearing screams of agony and having that visual… I'm not sure why they call it a beautiful process. Murder is a far prettier process than childbirth."

Her mouth hung agape as she comprehended what Sherlock was telling her. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She let out an involuntary laugh.

"Why are you laughing?"

"I haven't the slightest clue!"

"You aren't upset?"

"Well, I'm sure you have a valid point. I didn't see what was going on down there when Adele was being born, but I'm sure it wasn't aesthetically appealing."

"No. Not in the slightest," he agreed solemnly.

"So, I don't look like I'm pregnant, and you won't have sex with me not because I'm not attractive, but because you've been traumatized by the delivery of your daughter?"

"Yes."

"Okay then. I knew Mrs. Higgins was just a batty old bird."

And with that, Irene pulled up her pants and buttoned them up again, and grabbed up her shirt. She strutted out of the room confidently, leaving Sherlock to wonder why these things still managed to happen to him.


	16. Chapter 16

It was Friday evening, about nine months after Sherlock had faked his death, and Irene had a function for work. They hadn't been able to find a sitter in time, so Sherlock opted out of attending. As Irene got ready for the evening, Sherlock sat with Adele and read to her from an organic chemistry textbook. She sat in his lap, engrossed in the book as he read to her.

"Within the cells, the genetic information is transferred, allowing for mitosis or other cellular processes to occur."

"Ah?" Adele squeaked, almost questioningly.

She had planted her drool-covered hand onto the page, indicating that something had interested her. "Yes, Kitty, that's DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid. That's where genetic information is stored, such as where your superior genetic code. The double-helix—that's what that structure is called—is very impressive."

Irene walked into the room and smiled when she saw the dynamic duo and their science textbook. Adele's fascination with the book allowed no room for doubt as to whose daughter she was. Sherlock's attentiveness to making sure Adele was properly educated in these matters made it even clearer whose father he was.

Irene approached the chair and glanced down at the page and saw where Adele's hand was. "Sherlock, she's not pointing at the double-helix; she's pointing at the cat."

Sherlock looked down at the page to verify this. Irene was correct. "Oh."

In one fluid motion, Irene was sitting down next to them, pointing at the picture of the cat. "Addie, what noise does the kitty make?" she asked her daughter.

Adele stared at her mother with wide-eyes. She moved her little hand up and down over the page, indicating that she approved of this picture. "Addie… what noise does the kitty make? Does the kitty go meow?"

Sherlock sighed. "Oh lord," he muttered. "I try to start her science education early, and still, it always results to the lowest common denominator."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, what noise does the kitty make?" she asked him.

"No."

"Sherlock, does the kitty go meow?"

"I would imagine that it does…"

"What noise does the kitty make?"

"I'm not doing this, Irene. I refuse."

"Addie, do you think Daddy should make the noise that a kitty makes? If he's so concerned with your science education, he should also be concerned with what noise basic animals make."

"Oh good… try to make her take sides. That's a good lesson to teach a ten-month-old infant."

Irene grinned wickedly. "Sherlock, what noise does the kitty make?"

He glared at her over Adele's head. Resignedly, he sighed and leaned around so he could see Adele's face. He put his finger next to the picture of the cat. "The kitty goes meow," he answered in a dejected tone, making it very clear how disparaging he found this activity.

For the next few moments, Irene and Sherlock meowed at their daughter. When Adele started giggling at her parents, Sherlock immediately shut up. "This is degrading to her intelligence, Irene. We are supposed to be helping her build her mind, and instead, we're meowing at her. When did we become people who meow at infants?"

"You have to start somewhere," Irene insisted as she continued to play with Adele. "And we've started with kitties."

"I don't agree with that."

"Sherlock, she's an infant. She's not going to care about the finer details of deoxyribonucleic acid. She's not even necessarily fluent in Basic English yet, let alone extensive scientific terminology."

"But meowing at her is supposed to help her fluency?"

"The kitty goes meow," Irene answered pointedly.

"Yes, we've established that."

"But more importantly, I got you to meow like a cat," Irene laughed. "I wish I had had my phone to capture this momentous occasion."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "I bet you do. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to continue with cellular functions."

"Or, you could just read Goodnight Moon."

"I can recite Goodnight Moon."

"So can I, but she likes the book."

"Are you sure repetition is the best thing for her?"

"She's a baby, of course it's the best thing for her."

"Again, I think we're severely underestimating her abilities."

"That might be true, but just think of how much time you will have when she falls asleep."

"So the point is to bore her to sleep?"

"Yes. Where have you been for the last seven months?"

Adele started wriggling around, reaching for Irene to pick her up. Irene lifted her daughter onto her own lap and combed her fingers through the out-of-place curls. Adele busied herself with her mother's necklace, fingering each of the pearls with keen interest. When Adele was focused, she was remarkably scrutinizing for a child of her age. As Sherlock and Irene had come to realize, this was perhaps the greatest characteristic their daughter had inherited from both of them. There was no fear that Adele wouldn't know how to see, not just look, at the world.

"Well, that idea is dull. This idea is much better. More interesting."

"Sherlock… read the book to her."

"I have been reading the book to her. She rather likes it."

"Not the science book; Goodnight Moon," Irene sighed.

"Oh. That's not happening."

"Sherlock, she's going to be brilliant no matter what book you read her. Reading in general builds brains, and we're already ahead of the game, because you've been reading her Tolstoy since you moved in. She's fine. Please just humor me and read the book to her?"

"It's not happening."

"Sherlock… so help me god… if you do not read that book to her…"

"What?" he asked, a mischievous glint appearing in his eye.

"You know what."

"Explicit detail," he said with a smirk.

"Daddy!" Adele squealed as she grabbed her father's nose, quickly dissolving the quickly escalating sexual tension between her parents.

Irene and Sherlock's eyes widened; Irene in response to Adele's first word, Sherlock in response to his daughter's hand appearing on his nose. Irene let out a cheer and clapped her hands. "Yes, that's right, Addie, that's Daddy!"

"That rhymed," Sherlock muttered, his voice nasally since his nose was still plugged.

"Sherlock…" Irene said warningly. "Good job Addie!"

Adele let out another shriek and started moving her hand, pulling Sherlock's nose with her hand. He winced and tried to get her hand off of his nose. "Ow… Adele, please remove your hand," he requested.

His efforts to remove her hand seemed to be in vain, because as soon as he would get one of her surprisingly strong little fingers uncurled from his nose, she'd have it right back. Even though her fingernails were subject to be cooed over by broody women, they were viciously sharp. Sherlock would be lucky if he walked away from this situation without any remnants of her hand.

Irene swooped in and helped Sherlock in his efforts to remove Adele's hand. She tried not laughing as she did so, not to reinforce Adele's behavior. Once her hand was removed, she started bouncing up and down as Sherlock braced her. "Ah, ah, ah, AH!" she squeaked, suddenly full of energy.

"You did something to her," Sherlock muttered.

"Goodnight Moon…" Irene sang quietly as she kissed Adele's head and left the flat.

About an hour later, Sherlock found himself reading another book to Adele. Though, just to spite Irene, it was not Goodnight Moon. It was James Joyce's Ulysses, and it served the same purpose as Goodnight Moon. Adele was asleep within five minutes once Sherlock started reading.


	17. Chapter 17

Two weeks before Adele's first birthday, Irene was in the kitchen getting Adele's food ready when she glanced out into the living room and saw that Adele was standing on her own, looking like she was going to start walking. "Sherlock!" she called out in excitement. "Sherlock! Come here, quick!"

He came rushing out of their bedroom, pulling on a shirt and looking worried. "What? What's wrong?"

Irene came out of the kitchen with the camera and had it open and pointed at Adele. "Sweetie, are you going to start walking?" Irene asked their daughter.

Adele grinned, her four teeth showing as she steadied herself on the chair. She looked from her mother, who was crouched down about seven feet away from her, and then to her father, who was standing aside, farther away than Irene was. Just as it seemed as though she was going to take her first steps, she plopped down on the ground and started crawling towards Irene. "Maybe not now," Sherlock remarked as he finished tucking in his shirt.

"She should be walking soon, right?" Irene asked as she picked Adele up and kissed her on the cheek.

"The books say that she'll walk when she's ready. I mean, we've given her ample opportunity, so she might just be waiting for an inopportune moment to start walking," Sherlock mused.

"Well, she is your daughter, so I wouldn't doubt it," Irene muttered as she put Adele down and walked back into the kitchen.

As Irene walked back into the kitchen, Adele got up onto her feet and started walking towards Sherlock. "Irene…"

"What?" she asked, leaning around the corner to look at Sherlock.

He pointed down at Adele and smiled. "Inopportune moment?" he asked.

Irene let out a cry and grabbed up the camera, turning it on and pointing it at Adele. "Start talking to her, Sherlock. She's walking towards you, so praise or her something," Irene urged.

"How do I encourage her?" Sherlock asked lamely, looking from Irene to Adele.

"Sherlock, just talk to her!" Irene exclaimed in excitement.

He glanced down at Adele, who was getting closer to him and thought for a moment. "Um… good job, Kitty… that's it… just like that," he said in a fairly monotone voice.

"Sherlock… you're hopeless," Irene sighed as she walked over to them. "Good job Addie!"

Adele turned her attention from her father to her mother, but quickly turned her attention back to Sherlock. She let out a loud shriek of glee as she continued to take determined steps towards her father. "I don't know what to do," Sherlock admitted in a panicky voice.

"Hold out your arms to her. She'll come to you."

Hesitantly, Sherlock held his arms out to Adele, who continued to look very pleased with her new trick. She was absolutely beaming as she showed off to her parents. "Are you getting this?" he asked Irene.

She nodded as she walked closer to them. "Crouch down," she instructed Sherlock.

He sank down slowly and Adele reacted positively, letting out another giggle and taking more determined steps until she reached her father and indicated that she wanted to be picked up. Irene let out a few happy cheers and Sherlock smiled proudly at his daughter, who had rested her head on his shoulder. As much as no one expected it, it appeared as though Adele was more drawn to her father than her mother.

Irene smiled as she continued to film her little family, she couldn't help but admit that it would break her when Sherlock returned to whence he came. She knew that he would, the man lived and breathed London, but she still held out, hoping that she and Adele would be enough to keep him in Australia.

As wretched as he could be sometimes, Sherlock became a good man the second Adele was in his arms or anywhere near him. Adele had succeeded in the one thing that many had tried to accomplish: making Sherlock Holmes fall in love with them. He was hardly personable or cuddly, but when his little girl was involved, Sherlock softened, thawing away some of the cold exterior that had served as his reputation for his entire life.

Maybe Adele would be enough. Maybe the thought of leaving his daughter half a world away would keep Sherlock. Irene knew it was foolish to pine away for this reality, but she hoped, almost constantly, that their reality would change and they could remain as their little unit in their flat in Darwin, where Adele would grow up, become educated, become worldly, fall in love, get married, and live her own life as her parents grew old together.

She was brought out of her reverie by Sherlock's yelp of pain. Her gaze snapped to focus on Sherlock, who had yelped because Adele had grabbed hold of both his nose and his hair. "Daddy nose!" she shrieked.

"Adele, let go of my nose… please," Sherlock stated firmly.

"Nose!" she cried out again, making sure to bop him squarely with her palm.

"Ow, Adele, that hurt," he explained, uncurling her hand from his hair. "Hitting people hurts."

"Nose!"

"Yes, Adele, that's my nose. Where is your nose?" Sherlock asked, sighing in relief because his daughter's hands were no longer anywhere near his face.

Adele had a strange fascination with Sherlock's face and hair. She took after her mother in that regard. Both Irene and Adele were always insistent upon playing with his curls, which was why he had taken to keeping his hair short. He didn't know why Adele was so fascinated with his nose, and there wasn't much he could do in order to deter her from grabbing his nose rather forcefully, other than explaining that it wasn't nice to manhandle other people's noses.

Sherlock's question seemed to perplex Adele. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she tried to determine this mind-boggling question. Where was her nose?

It was moments like this that Irene adored. She never interfered with these small moments, wanting to keep them as organic as possible. Of course, she would step in if things got out of hand or if she felt that Sherlock was doing something wrong, but these situations had become fewer and farther between. She knew that Sherlock viewed Adele as an experiment of sorts, but Irene viewed Sherlock as the greatest experiment testing what happens when a man, who claimed he was a high-functioning sociopath but was probably likelier to have Asperger's, was paired up with a child who was a force to reckon with.

So far, the experiments had proven to have interesting results. Especially Irene's experiment.

Adele put her hand on her own face. "Nose?" she asked as she pointed to her mouth.

"No. That's your mouth. Where's your nose?" Sherlock asked.

She stuck her hand on his mouth. "Mouth?"

Not nose, but she had accurately identified something. "Yes, good job," Sherlock said quietly as he gave her hand a quick kiss.

Yes, Irene's experiment was proving to be very interesting.


	18. Chapter 18

Since Adele had started walking, seemingly simple tasks that Sherlock and Irene had taken for granted became much more of a challenge. Bath-time was one of these tasks.

Adele's nighttime routine was fairly consistent, but depending on what night it was, it was either her mother or her father who ran the routine. Irene worked later on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sherlock took Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the weekends to work late. The system worked well, and they had expected it to continue to work well as Adele became older. However, when she started walking, she didn't stick to just walking for long. The walking soon became running, and she found running to be most amusing.

Two weeks after Adele started walking, Irene arrived home to find the flat in a state of disarray. Water puddles were everywhere and a pathway of little wet footprints could be followed throughout multiple rooms. Irene let out a giggle when she saw how miserable Sherlock looked as he tried to explain to Adele that escaping the bathtub and running around the house while still wet was not appropriate. He was completely drenched and Adele didn't seem to be considerate of Sherlock's point.

"Rough night?" Irene asked quietly as she stood in the doorway.

"Don't. Even. Start," he hissed.

Half an hour later, he walked into the kitchen, having changed out of his wet shirt. "Is she asleep?"

"For now," he replied. "It's only a matter of time before she hones her escape-artist skills."

"So, what happened?"

"I turned my back for a second, and it was quite honestly a second, and she managed to get out of the tub and she started running around the flat."

"How long was she running around for?"

"Three or four minutes."

"So you're telling me that your one-year-old daughter managed to defeat you?"

"Well, ultimately, I won that battle."

"But she still managed to outsmart you?"

"She's surprisingly fast."

"You're five or six times her size," Irene pointed out.

"She can hide under tables."

Irene let out a sigh. "You call her Kitty, but it seems like in this scenario, you were the cat and she was the mouse."

"Mouse isn't nearly as catchy as Kitty."

Other tasks, such as getting Adele to stay in the push-chair, were as difficult, if not more so. Adele had managed to figure out how to unclasp the fastener that kept her in the chair, and now that she was running around, if someone wasn't watching her like a hawk, she would go missing.

Sherlock had had the misfortune of having to watch after Adele while Irene was trying on clothes one Sunday afternoon. The process was dull and longwinded, so Sherlock zoned out. Adele, now able to discern when her parents were paying attention or not, took this as a glorious opportunity to break free from her confines and go exploring. It took Sherlock an entire minute to realize that Adele had escaped. But, as a very curious and newly-mobile child, sixty seconds was more than enough time for Adele.

He jumped out of the chair he had been in and started searching for Adele in all of the racks. Sherlock tried not to be too loud when calling for Adele, because he didn't want Irene to know that he managed to lose her. So, he kept looking for her, quietly calling out for Kitty.

When he found her, five minutes later, she was standing at the makeup counter, looking at an advertisement for lipstick or foundation. It didn't take long for Sherlock to realize why Adele was fascinated with the advertisement. "Mama?" she asked as she pointed at the picture.

"No," Sherlock answered.

He scooped her up and examined for any external injuries that she might have sustained during her little adventure. "Daddy… Mama?" she asked again.

"It looks like Mama, but it's not your mother."

"MAMA!" Adele shrieked.

"Adele, quiet down. You're in public."

"Daddy!" she screamed, nearing tears.

The woman at the makeup counter looked at Sherlock sympathetically. Adele had started wriggling around, fighting her father in her efforts of trying to get down. "Mama…" she wailed.

"Adele Sophelia Jenkins," he muttered into her ear, trying to calm her down.

He and Irene had discovered that yelling at Adele did very little to dissipate situations in which she was acting up. Talking in very low voices, maintaining an air of confidence and staying calm, was the best way to get Adele to listen.

Sherlock put Adele into the push-chair and made sure to not only close the clasp, but to also tie her in. As far as he knew, she hadn't figured out knots yet. She continued to cry out in disagreement with her situation, but didn't cause more of a scene than she had.

As they walked back to the dressing room area, Sherlock realized that he was shaking. It took a moment for him to understand why he was shaking, but when he did, he decided it was had been due to a biological response to realizing that his offspring was missing.

That night, after Adele had been put to bed, and it had been verified that she was actually still in her bed (the child was like Houdini sometimes), Irene found Sherlock lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. "What happened today? You've been quiet since we got back from shopping."

"I lost Adele."

"You what?" Irene asked flatly, her displeasure with this news pouring through into her voice.

"She escaped from the chair when I was thinking. It took me five minutes to find her."

"Five minutes?" Irene hissed. "She could have been taken!"

He jerked his head over to look at her sternly. "You don't think I know that?" he growled.

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and stared up at the ceiling again. Obviously, he was upset about losing Adele, but there was something more to this than he was saying. "You found something, didn't you?" Irene asked quietly.

"It's more extensive than I anticipated," he replied vaguely.

"How much more extensive?"

"Every continent, excluding Antarctica. I've called in favors to Sydney, but I fear it's not going to be as simple for everywhere else."

"How extensive is it in Australia?"

"As far as I can tell, he had agents in Perth, Melbourne, Sydney, and Alice Springs. He avoided Darwin due to the naval presence. By the end of the week, things should be in order. But the work has only just begun."

"You knew it would be a tenuous process when you started," Irene reminded him.

"I know. It just seems inane that this man is making me run in circles even from the great beyond. And losing Adele today in the store just made me think about how many places we look and find nothing until we find what we're looking for is right in front of us, yelling out. It makes me sick to think what might be right in front of me, yelling out to get my attention."

He rolled over onto his side, turning his back to Irene. She sighed quietly and fell back onto the pillows. She mulled what he had said, waiting a few minutes before she asked: "Sherlock, are we in any imminent danger?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at her. "No. Of all the many things we are, we're not in imminent danger. I've taken every precaution."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain."

"So, I guess that explains why you've been so intense lately. The stress has gotten to you, hasn't it?"

"Is it really that bad?"

"You accidentally ripped the head off of Adele's rubber duck last night."

"The rubber duck had it coming," he sniffed.

She laughed gently. "It was rather upsetting, wasn't it?"

A small smile formed on his face. "We're fine. I'm sorry to worry you about this. And don't think I'm an unfit parent because I've allowed Adele to escape. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No… actually, I've had the same thing happen to me several times. I don't know how she does it. It's not like she's actually very competent with walking or running. She just knows how to slip away unnoticed."

"Gee, I wonder where she gets that from," he quipped.

"Oh, hush!" Irene laughed as she batted at him. "As far as you being concerned about worrying me, don't worry about that. I think we've established that we're in this together, and that means carrying the brunt of the other's life together. I'm not worried about us not being safe; I'm worried about you thinking that you should keep the progress of your work to yourself. It's not healthy."

He hummed and drew in a long breath. He rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply once more. Irene turned to examine his features, smiling slightly to herself before she scooted closer to him and rested her head next to his, her nose lightly touching his cheek. She didn't close her eyes until she was certain that he was asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

One afternoon, when Adele was about eighteen months old, Irene came home to shrieks of laughter and barking. Since Sherlock didn't do animal noises, she feared the worst.

"What on earth is going on in here?" she asked as she walked into the living room and saw her daughter and Sherlock sitting on the ground, playing with one of the most awkwardly adorable dogs Irene had ever seen.

It was a little Kookier hound, probably young adult by the looks of it, with part of its left ear missing. The dog looked healthy, but it was obvious that the dog hadn't always been healthy. "A dog?" Irene asked pointedly of Sherlock.

"Followed me home."

"Right. And it managed to unlock the door and do the passcode?"

"Very smart dog."

"Doggy!" Adele cried out. "Mama, doggy!"

"Yes, Addie… that is a doggy."

The dog licked Adele's face and she let out a giggle. She tentatively put her hand on the dog's back and patted it. Irene looked to Sherlock, who was keenly watching the dog and his daughter, to make sure that neither one of them was hurt by the other. "Sherlock…" Irene sighed as she put her bag down on the table and slipped off her shoes.

"Put your shoes somewhere that the dog won't find them," he warned. "Gladstone likes shoes."

"Gladstone?"

"That's the name of the dog."

"Says who?"

"Me."

"Who said we're keeping this dog?"

"She's a good watchdog."

"Sherlock, we live in a flat. We can't have a dog running around with our infant child!"

"Irene, look at Adele and tell me that you're going to deny her a dog. I mean, we had a bit of an issue at the beginning with being a bit rough, but she's quickly learned to be gentle."

"Which one was being rough with the other?" Irene asked warily.

"Adele was being a bit rough with Gladstone. Apparently, we never explained how to interact with animals," Sherlock explained absently.

Gladstone sat down next to Sherlock and rested her head on his leg. Adele clamored into her father's lap and resumed petting the dog. Irene sighed again.

She hated conceding to such silly requests, but it was obvious that Sherlock liked the dog and Adele adored the dog. She didn't know the true story of how the dog came to be in their flat, but she decided that she was going to trust Sherlock on this one.

"Well, has the dog been cleaned?"

"She was at the groomer's just this morning. I wanted to make sure she was clean before coming into the flat. Didn't want Adele exposed to a dog that hadn't been cleaned."

So, he was being sensible. She hated it when he was being sensible; it made it even more difficult to argue with his point. The dog must have really just been one hell of a dog and Irene just wasn't seeing it yet.

"How did you really find the dog?" Irene asked, sitting down on the ground next to Sherlock and Adele.

Hesitantly, she stuck her hand out to let the dog sniff her. As a sign of approval, Gladstone licked Irene's hand and walked around Sherlock to sit next to Irene. Maybe the dog wasn't such a bad idea.

As Irene stroked the dog's head, she was reminded of when she was a girl. She had never been allowed to have pets because of how often her family moved around. Pets just weren't feasible. But, when she was ten, her parents finally relented to her pleading and adopted a dog. Rigoberto the Rhodesian Ridgeback. He was such a gorgeous dog with dark auburn fur. She remembered, painfully, the day that Rigoberto died from being hit by a car.

Since Irene was so traumatized by the ordeal, her family never got another pet. This was the first time Irene was touching a dog since she had Rigoberto, and she had forgotten how calming it was to be in the presence of an animal.

Sherlock smiled as he internally cheered for his successful acquisition of the dog. "She helped me take down another sector of Moriarty's web."

Irene glanced up at him. "What?"

"She stole my newspaper while I was working yesterday afternoon, and as it turned out, the portion of the paper that she took had viable information for me. I think I've found my new assistant."

"A dog?" Irene asked flatly.

"Yes."

"You won't have me help you with cases, but you'll have a dog help you," Irene muttered.

"Unlike you, Gladstone can't talk. But, she's very good at listening."

"Yes… about that name… why Gladstone?"

"Name of the leader of this particular section that I've taken down."

"That's morbid," Irene scoffed.

"She doesn't mind."

Irene looked down at the dog and agreed. Gladstone didn't mind that she was named after the presumably dead man. And there really was no reason why Gladstone couldn't stay there, none that Irene could note anyway. She appeared to be a very placid dog who was comfortable with Adele and her curious nature. Adele seemed to approve of the animal.

Irene sighed. "Fine."

Sherlock smirked. "Fine? That's all I get?"

"Yes. But if she causes trouble, I'll have you know, the dog will be up for adoption."

Sherlock nodded absently and continued petting the dog. This was going to be lovely.


	20. Chapter 20

I meant to add in a link to a picture of what Gladstone looks like in the last chapter, but apparently, I can't post links. Anyway, the type of dog that Gladstone is is a Kookier Hound (kookierhondje), and is a smallish spaniel used for fowling and other hunting activities. The description of their temperament (cheerful, intelligent, attentive, and willing to please their owner) seemed to fit the sort of dog that I'd imagine this bunch to have. I recommend looking up the dog for a visual, they're adorable dogs.

Here's another very long chapter (I think it might be the longest thus far). Enjoy!

* * *

><p>The next year went by rather quickly. Sherlock was dismayed by how quickly it went. They had fallen into a pattern of "blink and you'll miss it", because it seemed like Adele changed every second. Maybe it was because she was changing every second as she drew in and internalized everything she touched, saw, and experienced.<p>

Gone were the days of Adele being a tiny little girl who was completely dependent on her parents. No, no. Miss Adele Jenkins was her own person, thank you very much, and she made it very clear that she was independent. Of course, this was the mark of good parenting, at least according to Irene. Letting children think their independent, allowing them to make their own decisions and learn from their mistakes whilst still under the protection of their parents, was the key to raising successful people. Sherlock wasn't too keen on this idea.

He was still in the throes of taking out Moriarty's web. During the previous twelve months, he had successfully taken out the major pillars worldwide, but there were still a few key figures that he needed to take out. They, of course, were in Europe and Sherlock wasn't ready to go back to Europe.

Inevitably, he would have to get back to Europe, but the moment wasn't right. He couldn't quite figure why the moment wasn't right, he just knew that it wasn't. And if Irene was convinced that Adele was capable of being independent at age two and a half, there were certainly going to be nasty surprises along the way. He wasn't sure if he could handle that.

Invariably, Irene and Sherlock had fallen into a pattern of parenting, the flux of compromises, disputes, and unified fronts. Both were surprised by how often they agreed with one another, but the times where they just couldn't agree on how to handle situations often led to long, drawn out battles of the wits. Unlike their pre-child days, these arguments weren't playful, sexual innuendo laden banters; these were deep, impassioned discussions regarding fundamental values. There had been moments during the course of the previous year that Sherlock and Irene were both convinced that the other was just going to up and leave.

But, they survived, and Adele seemed to be well adjusted. She had started pre-school, per her request, and was enjoying that. Irene and Sherlock were obsessed with making sure that Adele didn't draw attention to herself or her parents, since Sherlock was very close to breaking serious ground on his quest and was on shaky ground as it was. The closer he got to Europe, the more and more of a liability his work became.

It wasn't until Adele's third birthday that Sherlock dismantled the last of the organization that resided outside of Europe. He had been terrified when he confirmed, through a series of cryptic emails to his source in Washington DC, that he had managed what he had long thought impossible. Though, later, he realized that he hadn't actually thought it was impossible; he had had a very small hope that it just wouldn't go well and he'd have to prolong the eventual trip back to London.

Not wanting to rock the boat and send Irene into a tizzy, he chose to neglect telling her of this milestone. He knew that eventually, he would have to tell her, but there were few repercussions for not telling her immediately, especially since he wanted to stay until Adele had turned three.

Adele's third birthday was the first birthday that they had had a party for. Adele had pleaded with Irene to let her have some friends over to have cake and ice cream. Irene didn't see any issue with the request, pleased that her daughter was demonstrating proper development by making friends and socializing. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not aware that there would be a brigade of three year olds in the flat on the weekend of Adele's birthday, so he was unpleasantly surprised by the screaming and yelling he was met with when he arrived home on the morning of Adele's birthday. (He should have known what he was getting into when the party responsible for the screaming and yelling was his daughter alone.)

Once the children arrived, Sherlock found himself scorning the day that his daughter was born. As Irene slipped a party hat onto his head, he glared at her. "Why in the name of sanity did you think this was a good idea?" he hissed to her.

"Hush… Addie wanted this."

"She wanted throngs of screaming three year olds for her birthday? I find that a bit unlikely."

"She wanted a party with her friends. It's not a horrible request of her."

"So you think…"

"Be nice," Irene growled at him as she patted him on his bum.

His eyes narrowed and she gave him a saucy wink. It was obvious that she was up to something.

After the throngs of screaming three year olds were sent home with their respective guardians, Sherlock and Irene cleaned up the flat. Adele, in her pajamas and sleepy from the excitement of her birthday, came walking out into the living room. "Mummy… Daddy… can I have a sister?" she asked them.

Sherlock whipped his head around to Irene. She had frozen in place, bent over the coffee table, gathering rubbish from the kids. "Good luck with that one…" Sherlock muttered as he grabbed the garbage bag from Irene and took over for her.

She grabbed his wrist and dug her nails into the skin. He let out a gasp. "Ow…"

"I think this is a good talk for Daddy to have with you, Addie," Irene explained to her daughter.

"Uh, no," Sherlock answered as he twisted his wrist out of Irene's grip.

"Why not?" Adele asked.

"Why do you want a sibling? Siblings are rubbish," Sherlock scoffed. "They take your toys, annoy you all the time, and don't mind their business."

"Do you have a sister, Daddy?"

"No."

"Do you have a brother, Daddy?"

"Unfortunately."

"What's his name?"

"Mycroft."

"That's a silly name."

"That's one way to put it," he muttered to himself.

Irene snorted as she rolled her eyes at Sherlock. He was clearly not the person for this job. But, she knew that. She had just wanted to see him squirm. "Addie, why do you want a sister?"

"Henry has a sister. He doesn't like her, but she's cute. She has really little hands."

"You want a sibling because Henry's sister has little hands?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"They're really little hands!"

"You have really little hands," he pointed out.

"But hers are really, really little hands!"

"Kitty, you can't base your desire for a sibling on the fact that Henry's sister has small hands. Hands get bigger."

Irene looked between Sherlock and Adele, gauging the battle of the wits that was going on in front of her. It was always fun to watch who would break first. (It wasn't always Adele who broke first.)

"But her hands are little! Little hands are cute!"

"Kitty, your argument is flawed!"

"How?" she retorted in her little voice.

Irene tried not to crack up, but this exchange was genuinely the most ridiculous thing she'd witnessed in at least a month. (The last most ridiculous thing she'd witnessed had been when Sherlock had tried to reason with Adele when she had refused to have her hair cut after she had tried to cut it herself. He had tried explaining to Adele that her hair looked strange with one side being a good three inches shorter than the other side. Adele had insisted that she liked her hair like that.)

"Think of your mother. She'd have to go through nine months of having your sibling inside her. I don't think she'd particularly enjoy that," Sherlock finally informed Adele, forcing Irene into the conversation.

Adele's eyes went large. "Why would my sister be in Mummy? Why would Mummy eat a baby?" she asked in dismay. "Mummy, do you eat babies?"

"Your turn," Sherlock murmured into Irene's ear

"Oh, that's just not fair!" Irene groaned. "You leave me to explain sex to her?"

"I don't know why it strikes me that the sex talk would be your area. But, for the sake of her innocence, leave out the bits about chains and whips. Don't want that getting around the playground."

"You are a dreadful man," Irene growled.

"Want to prove it later?" he queried cheekily.

He stood up, furrowed his brow, and looked between Adele and Irene. "You know what… given the circumstances, that seems inappropriate. Forget I mentioned it."

"Unlikely."

Sherlock shrugged. "Regardless, I think Adele has questions."

Irene turned to look at Adele, whose eyes were still wide with fear. "Mummy… do you eat babies?" she asked seriously.

"No, I don't eat babies."

"But Daddy said that my sister would be inside you for nine months. How does the baby get inside you?"

The sheer horror on her face and in her voice was enough to make Sherlock laugh to himself as he walked into the kitchen and discard of the rubbish from the party. He overheard what Irene was explaining to Adele. "…Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much…"

She was taking the traditional route. Sherlock felt that the proper story, the story of her conception went a little differently. Though, the actual story wouldn't be appropriate for Adele. Despite this, he tried to figure how that story might go if they were to tell her how it actually happened.

When a mummy has done very bad things and a daddy is contacted by Buckingham Palace to make sure that the mummy doesn't spread the bad things, the daddy goes to the mummy's house to talk some sense into her. Along the way to the mummy's house, the daddy asks his friend to punch him in the face, subsequently punching his friend in the face to ensure that his ruse of being the injured minister goes to plan. Upon reaching the house, the daddy inevitably meets mummy whilst the mummy is completely nude and defrocks him. Then, after Americans invade the house and at least one of the Americans is killed, the mummy drugs the daddy, and the daddy wakes up in his own bed with an interesting alarm on his phone that goes off whenever the mummy contacts him.

From that point on, the sexual tension between the mummy and the daddy is so intense that the friend that the daddy punched starts suggesting baby names (none of which are ever used). Then, the mummy tries to outsmart the daddy; the daddy wins, and then a few days after the daddy wins the battle of the wits, the mummy ultimately wins the… wrestling match… that results in the baby that comes three months after the mummy's ordered execution that the daddy saves her from.

Yes, that sounded much more accurate. But, that would be a story for many years down the line.

An hour later, Irene crawled into bed next to Sherlock. "So… were you serious about what you proposed earlier?" she asked him.

"Did she buy your story?"

"Eventually. But good lord, Sherlock… why on earth didn't you step in and correct her thinking when she thought that I have to eat a baby?"

"Figured you'd get a kick out of that one," he replied absently.

She rolled her eyes and started undressing. "Okay, let's do this."

He turned to look at her, a wry smile on his face. "Okay, let's do this?" he echoed. "The mistress of seduction has resorted to such a vile phrasing?"

Irene sat back on her legs and examined him. "Something's wrong," she observed.

"Why does Adele want a sibling?"

"I thought you understood why she wants a sibling… they have little hands," Irene joked.

She lay down on her side, along Sherlock's body. She began brushing his arm, combing his arm hair. "Besides… she might not be the only none inquiring this matter."

This caught his attention. "Sorry?"

"Have you thought about having another one? You know… intentionally?"

There was a right way of answering this, and then there was a very wrong way of answering this question. Sherlock never had the best luck with picking between these two. "Uh…"

Irene's expectant gaze was burning him. "Uh…? That's all you have?"

"Are you serious?"

"I don't know… I mean, I'm not really warm or cold on the matter. I just want to know what you think."

"I think you already know what I think."

"Well, if it helps any, I think we'd do fine with another one. You've exceeded my expectations."

"That's promising," he snorted.

"No… I'm serious. You're a brilliant father, proving me, more than anyone else, wrong about you."

"It's been more than four years, Miss Adler; one would think that after four years, you'd known this for about two years."

"So no…"

"I'm indifferent."

"Well, that's a surprise."

"I'm just a bundle of surprises."

She noticed something in his voice that worried her. "What is it?" she asked him seriously. "What did you find?"

He returned his attention to his book. "I've taken them all out. The only thing that is left is Europe."

Irene instantly realized what this meant. "Oh."

And thus, the discussion for a second child came to an abrupt end. Sherlock's announcement about leaving for Europe. Irene had known that it was stupid to bring up such a question with Sherlock, but since it didn't seem like things were progressing with his work, it was starting to look like he would be in Australia indefinitely, thus opening the conversations like this. Irene felt like an idiot for bringing up the topic with him.

"I wanted to wait until after Adele's birthday. I don't want to scar her for life. I won't leave immediately. I have final plans to make and connections to ensure before I do anything drastic."

"How long?"

"Two months, tops."

"That's soon."

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just make it easy on Adele. I've already ruined enough people in the process. I don't need to destroy her too."


	21. Chapter 21

A few weeks later, Adele sat on the kitchen counter, watching as her father worked through his experiments, detailing is findings. "Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to leave Mummy and me?" she asked him quietly.

He glanced up at his daughter over the Erlenmeyer flask he was cataloguing. His breath hitched as he thought about his return to London, saddened by the fact that his three-year-old daughter was even slightly aware of what the future had in store. "Kitty, what makes you ask that question?"

"You and Mummy were talking about you going on a trip and you said you wouldn't see us."

This was the downside of having a brilliant child; they saw everything, heard everything, and even though they might not understand everything they absorbed, they were inquisitive enough to regurgitate what they had absorbed to create situations like this.

He decided that if he lied to Adele, he'd probably destroy her for life. She deserved to know the truth, regardless of whether she'd properly understand it or not. "Kitty, I do have to leave, and I will be gone for a long time, but I'm going to come back sometime in the future. I'll be back for your birthday."

"But Daddy, why do you have to leave?"

Explaining the finer details of taking down a multi-national criminal web to a three-year-old was harder than it sounded. Adele was smart, but she wasn't that smart. Sherlock had to figure out how to put it into her terms. "Um… well, there are a lot of bad people in the world, Kitty. They do bad things and hurt people. It's my job to make sure that those bad people can't hurt any more people."

"Are the bad guys like Henry when he pushed me down at school?" she asked him.

"Sort of."

"And are you like Miss Ginny, who made Henry sit in the Naughty Chair?"

"Yes."

"And you have to leave because there are a lot of bad guys?" she inquired sweetly.

Sherlock. "Yes, Kitty."

"I'll miss you," she answered.

"I will miss you too," Sherlock replied, feeling absolutely dreadful.

Behind Adele on the fridge were half a dozen pictures that she had drawn of her family—Mummy, Daddy, and Gladstone—showing quite clearly what this little girl lived and breathed. She adored her parents and her dog, perfectly content with what her life was. He wondered if he'd still be featured in the pictures that Adele drew once he had been away from them for a few months.

After Adele had gone to sleep and Irene and Sherlock had gone to bed as well, Sherlock stared at the wall, mulling over the conversation he had had with his daughter earlier. "God, you're loud," Irene murmured as she crawled into the bed next to him.

He jerked his head to face her. "Sorry?"

"You've been quiet the entire evening, but it's not your normal quiet. Something's bothering you."

Sherlock let out a long, shuddery sigh and leaned against the pillows. "Kitty heard us talking about my return to London," he explained.

Irene let out a soft groan. "No…"

Sherlock shook his head and blinked a few times. "I'm not going to be able to do this. I don't see any reason to do this."

"Sherlock, you know why you're doing this. You have to do this. You have to return to tie up all of the loose ends of this, seeing your work through. Addie and I will be fine."

"I shouldn't just see her for her birthdays. I shouldn't just come back once a year for a week."

"But you have to."

"Maybe I don't. Maybe I don't have to go back at all."

"Sherlock, you have to. John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly… everyone else: they deserve to know that you're alive and well."

"I have nothing there. I mean… if you look at it, there is nothing there for me to go back to. John's probably moved on; Mycroft has probably thrown himself completely into work; Lestrade has probably forgotten about me all together; Mrs. Hudson probably has new tenants; and Molly has probably convinced herself that even though she knows that I survived that fall, I just moved on like everyone else."

Irene grabbed his hand and curled up next to him, resting her head next to his. She brought his hand up to her lips to kiss it. "Darling, it's not going to be easy, but you know that it is the right thing to do."

"Is it? Is it the right thing to do when it means that I will destroy yet another person in order to go fix everyone else that I broke?"

"She will understand one day."

"Yeah, one day. She already seems to have a pretty comprehensive understanding of the manner. She's three; she shouldn't have a comprehensive understanding of these things. Irene, you're her mother; you should know what is best for your daughter!"

"Shh… she's asleep. Don't wake her up."

He relaxed for a moment, exhaling sharply. "I have more important things to concern myself with now. I've spent the last three years completely immersed in this whole fatherhood, domestic thing. Sure, I've been working during that time as well, but for the last three years, my primary focus has been you and Kitty."

His eyes fluttered for a moment before he closed them and let out another deep sigh. Irene watched him, examining his face, looking for something new on that man's face even though she had his face long memorized. Forty was around the corner, and it showed in the fine lines around his eyes and on his forehead. He hadn't started to go grey yet, but even if he had, it wouldn't have been all that noticeable, given their ritual of dyeing his hair every few weeks.

"Are you always going to call her Kitty?" Irene asked him softly.

His left eye opened slightly. "Of course."

She smiled. "I don't think I ever learned why you call her Kitty."

A faint smile crossed his lips as he turned to face Irene. "The night she was born, they brought her in to be fed. You were asleep, so the nurses had me feed her. That's why I was better at it than you were. But that's beside the point. So, when I first held her, she was making these noises that sounded like a cat. Since she didn't have a name yet, I called her Kitty. And obviously, the moniker has befitted her, seeing as though she has really taken the name to heart, committing to the title."

Irene snorted with laughter. Just that day, Adele had insisted on having her lunch on the ground, like a cat, because she was going through a phase where she believed that she was a cat. They had found her trying to get up on top of one of the shelves the week previous, because apparently cats liked being on top of shelves. Beyond Adele's strange phases, the story was bittersweet; Sherlock was such a dad, shaping his daughter's life in more ways than they had anticipated.

It was easy to smile and reminisce on all of the good things that had happened in the last three and a half years. It was easy to pretend that Sherlock wasn't leaving behind the life that he and Irene had inadvertently created for themselves. But as soon as Irene saw Sherlock express weakness, allowing himself to be vulnerable about this situation, all bets were off.

So, when Sherlock began the final preparations for his journey back to London a few weeks later, Irene took it upon herself to be the strong one. Sherlock had done his part in being strong and keeping it together, so now it was her turn. She remained stoic, distancing herself emotionally from the situation, and was as helpful as possible to Sherlock. Neither knew the role that they would have in the other's life, but both suspected that it would be one that didn't differ too much from the one that they had, except it would be less defined than it was now.

Keeping to his word, Sherlock booked a flight for two months after Adele's third birthday. That date had been burned into Irene's mind as the day that she had to get to before she could break down and make it known that she didn't care for the situation.

Sherlock's flight was early in the morning. He had to be at the airport by four in the morning, which meant that his day had to start at least an hour and a half earlier than that.

He was up finishing up his packing, trying to be quiet as he did so. He had done most of the packing the night previous, but he had also wanted to make sure that he made the most of his time with Irene and Adele. So, he was up at two, tucking away his things and ensuring he had all of his things for his journey back to London.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was going home. Home was somewhat of an ambiguous concept to him, even though he had always felt fairly rooted in all of the places he had lived in his life. He supposed the concept of home was simply defined as the people whom he surrounded himself with, and in the previous three years, home had been Irene and Adele. He didn't know what was awaiting him (or what had stopped waiting) back in London.

"You almost packed?" Irene asked quietly as she slid out of bed and walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around him.

"Just about," he answered hoarsely as he tucked a bundle of socks into his suitcase.

She inhaled deeply, drawing the scent she had come to memorize. "Do you really have to leave?" she murmured.

"Yes."

"Yes, you do," she agreed, her voice shaky with the onset of tears that she was trying to resist.

"Don't cry," he muttered. "Crying doesn't better the situation."

"I'll see you in a year. And after three years of seeing you constantly, that doesn't seem adequate."

"Of course it's not adequate, but we discussed this."

"I want to rescind my points. I want to change my opinion."

"Irene…"

"I can't do this. I can't let you just walk out of our lives."

He gulped and turned around. "We'll go back to emailing."

"Emailing?"

"Irene, I'm so close to doing in Moriarty, and I need to go back to London for that. If, and only if, it's safe for you and Adele, we can discuss having you guys come closer. Ireland or something."

"Ireland?"

"Not Britain. Nothing too close. Dublin's close enough to justify a weekend trip, but not too close that it's a quick little drive."

This was the first time anything of this nature had been mentioned. From what Irene understood, she and Adele would be in Australia indefinitely. This was what really set her off, to the point that she was sobbing uncontrollably. She clung onto Sherlock's shirt and buried her face into his chest.

Maybe it was possible for them to make this work. If not immediately, sometime in the near future.


	22. Chapter 22

Mrs. Hudson looked as though she'd seen a ghost when Sherlock appeared on her doorstep. "Oh my heavens," she murmured when she saw the man.

"Mrs. Hudson."

"You're supposed to be dead!" she shrieked as she started beating him with the wooden spoon she had in her hand.

Not was all lost; because she felt sorry for beating Sherlock with a wooden spoon, she made him stay for dinner and they caught up.

The following morning, Sherlock went to Molly's apartment and assured her that he was alive and kicking. He was pleased to see that she had gotten married and had a little one on the way. When she opened the door to see him standing there, her jaw dropped and she let out a shrill shriek. "Oh my god… you're not dead!" she exclaimed as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Nope. Not dead," he agreed. "But you've changed."

She glanced down at the bump and blushed. "Yeah, a little bit," she sighed.

"Congratulations," he replied warmly.

"Thank you. Please come in," she urged him.

"Oh… I'm afraid I can't stay. I have a lot to get done and not a lot of time to do so. But… one last thing before I let you get back to your day… do you know where I can find John…?"

Sherlock determined that Lestrade and the rest of the Scotland Yard bunch would be dealt with at a later time, but after Mrs. Hudson and Molly, it was time to see John. After leaving Molly's flat for where John lived now, Sherlock found himself standing in front of John's new flat. It was about three blocks from the old flat, but the building was nicer, and he was closer to the clinic.

A fair-haired little boy answered the door, looking very proud of his achievement. "Hello!" he chirped as the door swung open.

Sherlock smiled at the child, feeling a pang of grief as he tried not to think of Adele. But this little boy's bright demeanor was making it difficult. "Uh… hi. I'm looking for John Watson. Is he in?"

"Daddy! It's for you!" the boy hollered with surprising skill.

"What? What are you talking about Alex? What is…"

John Watson stood in the doorway, seeming to have forgotten about the little boy who was apparently his son. "Bloody hell…" he muttered.

The little boy looked appalled. "Daddy… that's a bad word!"

John glanced down at the boy. "Alex… go play with your trucks…"

"Daddy, did I do a good job with answering the door?" Alex asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure," John answered absently.

Sherlock decided to swoop in and save the day with this one when he saw Alex's face fall, clearly understanding that John didn't really care. "You did a great job," Sherlock assured Alex, who beamed at this assertion from a complete stranger.

"Thank you!" Alex chirped before bouncing off into the rest of the flat.

It was now just Sherlock and John staring at each other. "Mrs. Hudson phoned… I didn't answer the phone, she didn't leave a message… I guess I now know why she called."

"John, I'm sorry."

"No. I'm sorry doesn't cut it, Sherlock. Three years."

"I know."

"Three… fucking… years," John said quietly, hoping not to have Alex learn a new word.

"You're married and have a child," Sherlock observed, hoping to sway this encounter to his benefit.

"I have two kids," John corrected angrily. "But don't change the topic."

"Two kids. Goodness… that's great."

"Why are you here? Why now?"

"I need your help."

"No."

"John, you haven't even heard what I need your help with."

"I'm not interested. I've got a wife, two kids, a job, and absolutely no concern for what you might require of me."

"Moriarty's web is almost completely destroyed. A few more people and it's done."

"I don't care."

"You should."

"I shouldn't."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "This is childish. John, please just… be rational."

This was the wrong thing to say to John Watson, whose definition of rational was to punch Sherlock in the face and slam the door immediately afterwards.

Irene was thoroughly amused by Sherlock's appearance and story when they video-chatted later on that evening. "He's managed to miss your nose again," she observed.

"It's all about the aesthetics with you, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Irene laughed.

"How is Adele?" Sherlock asked.

Irene sighed. "Busy. She's started her ballet class and that's all she wants to do now. She's broken a vase or two in her valiant efforts to be a ballerina in the house. We've had to have discussions about leaving ballet for ballet class and not at home. Otherwise, she's still in her cat phase, and has taken to chasing Gladstone around the flat, hissing at her. I don't know which one will need more therapy."

He chuckled quietly, as not to wake Mrs. Hudson. 221B had been rented out long ago to another set of tenants—married ones this time—so Sherlock was staying in Mrs. Hudson's portion of the flat for the time being, until he could get his own place, which as it appeared, would be 221C, since the current tenants were moving in a matter of weeks. And John was being exorbitantly unhelpful, within good reason.

Sherlock didn't find it shocking that John had gone off and gotten married and had children. If anyone would do that sort of thing, it would be John Watson. What shocked him was John's reaction. John could have easily broken Sherlock's nose, but he didn't, which indicated that maybe John wasn't as displeased as he displayed.

"You miss her, don't you?" Irene asked him quietly when she sensed that she was losing his attention.

"Of course."

Neither addressed the fact that they missed having the other in bed with them when they went to sleep and woke up. It went without saying.

"A few more months?"

"Yes."

"Well, you've got that to look forward to," Irene assured him.

He nodded in reply. There was suddenly a crashing noise in the background and Irene's head whipped around in response to the noise. "Adele Sophelia Jenkins!" she yelled.

"Sorry!" Adele's little voice called back. "It was an accident!"

"Adele…" Irene groaned as she stood up from the kitchen table. "Hang on."

Sherlock smirked as he listened closely to the chaos in the background. A few moments later, Adele came bounding into the view of the camera and she plopped down at the chair where Irene had been only a minute or so previously. "Hi Daddy!" she cried happily. "Are you fighting the bad guys?"

He smiled, but felt a knot forming in his stomach. "Yes, Kitty, I'm fighting the bad guys," he replied quietly.

"Good," she asserted as she put her face closer to the screen.

"Adele, what are you doing?" Irene and Sherlock asked in unison.

"I'm giving Daddy kisses!" she explained.

Irene sighed and stepped into the view of the web camera. "Addie, you can't kiss the computer."

"But how am I supposed to give Daddy kisses?" she asked innocently.

At this point, Irene taught Adele a very useful trick that she had picked up in her years as a dominatrix: blowing kisses. Obviously, Irene's purpose of doing this in the past had been as a means of attracting men. Her methodology of blowing kisses reflected this, but fortunately, Adele didn't quite master this technique when her mother showed her how to do it. He laughed as he watched the two most important girls in his life, the Adler girls, blow kisses to him via webcam.

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock said goodnight to both of them and went to sleep, with every intention to fight the rest of the bad guys so he might be able to return to his daughter and Irene as soon as possible.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock had to do a lot of groveling before John would even remotely consider talking to him again. In fact, it was three months after Sherlock returned that John agreed to meet up with him. But, when John did agree to meet with Sherlock, there was no physical assault, nor were there any harsh words. Sherlock was a little put off by John's placid demeanor; he had expected there to be more yelling and punches.

And yet, there were none.

The two men met at a coffee shop a block down the street from John's new flat. He had sworn they had the best coffee at this particular shop, and since it had been three years since Sherlock had been in London, he couldn't disagree. It was a lovely March morning when they met.

Sherlock found John standing out in front of the shop, looking up and down the street for his friend. "Hello John," Sherlock called out as he approached John.

This had been the first time that Sherlock had been able to examine his friend without the threat of John punching him within the first two minutes of seeing each other. John had developed more wrinkles, had gone greyer and appeared to have lost some weight. Sherlock supposed that this was due to running after two young children—ages roughly three and a half and six months, based on the baby food that was on John's shirt. He looked exhausted, but not because of anything bad. Children were tiring.

Work must have also picked up, because John's attire indicated that he had moved to a different clinic, perhaps a more specialized clinic or a hospital. He was in more formal clothing, nicer than anything that John had worn for work prior to Sherlock's faked death. This obviously indicated that either John was making more, or Mary insisted that he dress nicer. But, because there was baby food on John's lapel, Sherlock inferred that it was both. John wouldn't wear a dirty dress shirt to work, which meant that this probably wasn't his work attire. John probably wouldn't wear his work clothing while feeding his children either.

"You're running late," John observed.

"Yes, sorry about that. I had a case to wrap up. How is the family?"

"They're fine. Since when do you care about them though?"

"I return after three years and see my only friend has started a family. I suppose it's relevant."

"But you don't care about anyone but yourself."

The hurt on Sherlock's face made John realize that this was the wrong thing to say. John was about to start backpedalling when Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose I deserve that. But I hope you see the changes that these three years have brought about."

"Me too," John murmured as he followed Sherlock into the café.

They sat down at a table near the back of the eatery, almost immediately being tended to by a young waitress. "Hi there," she chirped. "How are you, Dr. Watson?"

"I'm doing well, Abby," John replied. "How are classes?"

Sherlock froze, thinking that he had heard John say Addie. Just the night before, Irene had informed him that Adele had needed to get stitches because she had been pushed down at school after telling her classmates that her daddy was a superhero because he was off fighting bad guys. The kids, cruel as ever, had sneered at her and told her that she was a liar because superheroes aren't real. Sherlock had winced when Irene told him this; drawing parallels to his daughter's life and to his life with John only just exacerbated the guilt that he felt regarding his abrupt departures.

"Sherlock?" John asked, examining his friend's face carefully.

He jolted to attention. "Hmm?"

"Are you going to order?"

"Oh… yes. I'll have black coffee, please."

Abby hurried off with their order, leaving the two men alone. "Are you okay?" John asked.

"Where is Abby studying?"

"University of London. She rather enjoys it."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. He didn't actually care, but anything to divert the topic of discussion and his thoughts away from Adele and Irene was better than nothing. "So… it's Alex and another one?" he asked quickly, still trying not to think about Adele, but figuring that John's kids were better than his.

"Alex and Belle. Well, it's Alex and Isabel, but Belle fits her better."

"How old?"

"Four and eight months."

"Four?"

"Mary's son from a previous relationship. He was only a few months old when we first started dating."

"Fatherhood suits you."

"Does it?"

"Well, the way I see it, anyone who can put up with living me would make a good parent," Sherlock laughed. "Somewhat comparable to a kid myself."

John looked thoroughly confused. "That's a rather deep self-observation, Sherlock," he remarked.

"I've done a lot of changing over the last few years."

"Clearly."

Abby returned with their orders, setting Sherlock's coffee down in front of him, and setting John's scone and tea in front of him. "Let me know if you need anything else," she told them before scurrying off.

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee after adding two sugar cubes to the liquid. John stirred his tea absently, still examining Sherlock with a furrowed brow. It was surreal to see his friend sitting in front of him, fully fleshed out and real. As much as John had loved the thrill of being on a case, he didn't think that he could ever go back to that life; not now that he had kids. Alex and Belle were the best things—next to Mary— that he had ever had in his world and there was very little that could ever compromise that. But, John knew that Sherlock had changed. Faking your own death didn't come without a little self-analysis.

"So… what have you been up to these last few years?" John asked slowly, almost not sure if he wanted the answer.

"Taking out Moriarty's web. I've gotten down to the final ten. I've reached a critical point, and I must remain under wraps until after this has been settled. After that point, I can resume a fairly normal life, but I can never go public again. Mycroft has settled those details."

"Did he know you were alive?"

"No. He only just found out a few weeks ago. But he's been briefed on the situation, and things are now in order."

"Why do you need my help?"

"Another set of eyes on the case might help."

"Have you been working alone?"

"For the most part."

"And you've been going around the world, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Working your way around the world, meeting many people and making contacts?"

"You know me well."

"Sounds a bit exotic."

"Hardly. It was a bit tedious, actually. Didn't get to see anything of actual interest most of the time."

"Only you would be bored with travelling the world."

"You would be bored too if you led the travels I had," Sherlock sniffed.

They kept talking, and Sherlock could tell that John was warming to the idea of coming back to help him take out the last ten men standing. John's entire body appeared to be twitching with excitement for the chase, longing for the adrenaline that came with the cases. Sherlock knew he had John where he wanted him. Though, with that realization, Sherlock came to another realization: that Irene had rubbed off on him more than he had expected.

When they parted ways about an hour later, John told Sherlock that he was going to go discuss their conversation with Mary to see how she felt about the matter. Sherlock had a bad feeling about how Mary might take this news, but held his tongue. Sure enough, a few hours later, John showed up at 221C with an overnight bag and a look of defeat on his face. "Mary kicked me out. She and I had a row, about working with you on this case, and she told me to leave. So… is there anything by way of furniture that I might be able to sleep on?"

"She's not going to be pleased with the fact that you stayed here."

"No, she's not, but you're the best option I have at the moment, so I'll worry about that."

"John, she's probably right."

"I can't take the boredom. I need an escape from the kids and from the house. I mean, don't get me wrong; they're brilliant, but if I have to watch another episode of the Tellitubbies, I might have to murder someone."

"You subject your children to such atrocities?" Sherlock squawked in disgust.

"You try dealing with a four year old and an eight-month old!"

Adele had been a rather bright eight-month old. She had been attentive to books, especially Sherlock's textbooks (regardless of whatever Irene might have said, Adele was interested in the molecular structure of hydrocarbons and would need to know this information in the future), and showed early signs of being a musical genius. There had been no need for inane children's television if a few chemistry textbooks and a violin would suffice.

Sherlock sighed. "Okay, you can stay here, but for only one night. You need to talk to Mary about this matter. If you don't, she will become irrational and this argument will become more than it should."

"Since when did you become a relationship expert?" John asked with a laugh.

"I've seen enough of your failed relationships to learn a thing or two about the matter."

John glared at him before brushing past him to walk into the flat. He was surprised to see that the room had been recently renovated, perhaps through Sherlock's doing, and was actually a livable space. "You renovated the place?"

"Terms of my tenancy," Sherlock explained blithely.

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. "How do you always get good real estate deals?"

"I've told you how I worked it so that I make out pretty well in these matters."

And with that, Sherlock walked further into the flat, leaving John to close the door behind him. This was going to make for a very interesting restart to the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and his (ex) blogger, John Watson.


	24. Chapter 24

Two months after Sherlock and John began working together again, he and John were at Bart's, looking at a body. They had been there all afternoon, but John had obligations at home that he had to attend to, so he left at about 5 PM, inviting Sherlock to come along for dinner. Upon arrival at John's flat, they were informed that Mary's mother had been hospitalized.

"Mum's in the hospital… can't find a sitter," Mary hummed as she greeted John and Sherlock.

"What? What's happened?" John asked worriedly.

"They don't know yet. But I told Lucy that we would be there as soon as possible. I can't find a sitter though, so the kids will have to come with us."

"I can watch them," Sherlock offered quietly.

"What about Miss Millie? She likes the kids," John suggested, ignoring Sherlock.

"She's old and we'd have to leave the kids overnight," Mary informed him. "I've already called Annie and Meg. They're both busy tonight."

"I can watch them," Sherlock repeated, louder and firmer this time.

Mary and John spun around to look at the man, amusement on their faces. "We appreciate the sentiment, but we don't want the kids dead," John explained.

"I'm more competent than you might think," Sherlock countered, worried that he might give away his secret.

"Sherlock, that's really sweet, but I don't feel comfortable with this," Mary told him quietly.

"I've been with the kids before. Sure, it might be tricky with two, but I'm sure we can manage. Just let me prove you wrong."

"Sherlock…" John sighed. "I don't know if this is such a great idea."

"And you have every reason to think that. But I'm confident that I can handle this."

"Two kids, overnight?" Mary asked.

"Alex is a competent child. He can help."

"Alex is four…"

"He's a very competent four year old."

John sighed and looked at Mary. "Hang on a second," he told Sherlock as he pulled Mary aside, leaving Sherlock standing in the front entryway of the apartment.

A minute or so later, after hushed conference in the kitchen, Mary came back to the entryway, looking a bit displeased. "Okay. But if anything happens, you call Lestrade immediately. We'll be telling him that you're watching the kids tonight."

"I wouldn't expect less."

John examined Sherlock's face. "No crime scenes. No midnight pursuits. They stay with you at all times. And if you have to go out, it had better be to a family-friendly place."

"A family-friendly place?"

"You know… McDonald's or Tesco."

"Right."

"We're serious, Sherlock," John informed him. "If I find out that you did anything other than what we told you, I will kill you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to make an ill-timed and inappropriate quip, somehow regarding the past three years, but he found himself really wanting to prove to John and Mary that he was able to care for children. After caring for Adele for three years, he had become competent in these matters, and even though they didn't know better, he felt threatened by their allegations.

"Okay."

"Okay?" John echoed.

"I understand," Sherlock replied. "The kids and I will stay here until you get back, unless there is some sort of an emergency that warrants us leaving."

"Define emergency," Mary interjected.

"Isabel has run out of nappies?"

"Unlikely, but fine."

"They will be fine," Sherlock assured them.

"You understand why we aren't comfortable with this, right?" Mary asked him.

"Completely," he answered stiffly.

He hadn't warmed to Mary yet, and this encounter just solidified why they hadn't clicked well. Mary didn't trust him, and with good reason. She had seen John at his worst, right after Sherlock had faked his death, so she was wary of Sherlock's presence in her husband's life. Sherlock, on the other hand, was having trouble seeing what John saw in this woman. She was a lovely woman; attractive, smart, talented, and warm, but Sherlock was still in the dark about why she was important to John.

Satisfied with his answer, Mary and John rushed off to pack up and head out to Surrey. Just as they were about to leave, John pulled him aside. "I'm serious about what I said. If anything happens to the kids because you were careless, I will have your head."

"John, your children will be fine."

"They had better be in better condition than we left them."

"I will ensure that they are."

And with that, John and Mary left.


	25. Chapter 25

Since it was five thirty when Mary and John left, Sherlock assumed that the children hadn't had dinner yet. Mary had left concise directions for the children's routines (bedtimes, naptimes, allergies, etc.) and emergency information on the kitchen counter, but had told Sherlock very little about how to go about these routines. It appeared as though Sherlock would have to rely on Alex for a little help.

Alex came out of his room with his trucks, setting them up in the hallway. Isabel was sitting in the playpen, playing with some sort of stuffed animal (it had been loved beyond the point of recognition). Sherlock looked around the flat and realized that this home looked not so different than his own in Darwin, except the Darwin home had been meticulously cleaned almost daily. This home looked like cleaning and tidiness had taken the backseat a long time ago.

Sherlock noted that he would need to enlist Alex for the task of helping him tidy up at some point during the next few hours. But, it was time for dinner, followed by baths.

As Sherlock anticipated, Alex was willing to help with these tasks. Alex was particularly interested in making sure that Isabel was given her dinner properly and that Sherlock followed her bedtime routine perfectly. Both kids were fed, showered, and put to bed by 8 PM, per Mary's instructions.

The following morning, John called to check in. "Hi, I just wanted to make sure everything's going well," he explained to Sherlock.

"Everything is fine. How is Mary's mother?"

John hesitated. He had never heard Sherlock ask a question like that. "Um… she's fine. She's definitely better now that she's in the hospital where people can keep an eye on her. We're probably going to be back tonight, though it's likelier that I'll be back tonight and Mary will stay down here."

"Okay; sounds fine," Sherlock replied.

This meant that he had time to put into place his plan to prove to Mary and John that he was more than competent in regards to childcare. He had gotten the kids up and running for the morning according to Mary's schedule, and since it was the weekend, it seemed as though the responsibilities for school were replaced with other activities not specified on the list.

Sherlock and John ended their phone call and Sherlock turned to Alex, who was busy eating a piece of toast. Isabel was sitting in her high chair, eating Cheerios that Sherlock had put out onto the tray for her. "Okay, Alex… I have a game," he told the boy.

"What sort of game?" Alex asked, his mouth full of food.

"Wait until you've finished chewing and have swallowed your food before talking Alex…" Sherlock reminded him gently.

Alex nodded and swallowed. "What sort of game?" he asked again.

"Your parents will be coming home later on, most likely just your dad, but when he gets home, wouldn't it be nice if the house was tidy for him?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Okay. It's going to be a race to see who can pick up more toys and put them into the toy bin. When you're done with your toast, we'll start."

Alex scarfed down his toast and ran from the kitchen, racing around the room, trying to win this battle against Sherlock. Sherlock knew that his job was basically done, but wanted to keep Alex's competitive drive in his favor, so he started helping Alex pick up the toys. He was surprised by how driven Alex was, because the room was tidy within minutes.

When John returned a few hours later, he walked into the flat and stopped in the doorway. The flat was quiet, clean, and appeared to be free from any strange odors or sights. In fact, it seemed as though no one was home. "Sherlock?" he called out into the flat.

Sherlock turned around in the armchair he was in to look at his friend. "How was the drive?"

John gaped at him in amazement. "Where are the kids?"

"Napping."

"Napping?" he echoed. "Both of them?"

"Yes."

"How?" John asked, dropping his bag and walked around to sit in the other armchair.

"Tired them out. It's why the flat is tidy."

"You put my children to work."

"Namely Alex, but Isabel attempted to help. She provided the motivational cheers," Sherlock explained.

John snorted. "Okay… okay, I'll give you credit; this is impressive. The flat is still standing, the kids are… presumably still alive… and you're in one piece. I'm sorry we didn't have faith in you."

"You must have known that the flat wasn't going to be destroyed… you wouldn't have let me do this otherwise."

"No, that's true. We had a little faith in your abilities. God… I can't wait to tell Mary about this. She's going to be thrilled!"

"This isn't going to become a normal occurrence, John. I have cases," Sherlock informed John, knowing full well that he wouldn't mind being a babysitter now and then.

Alex and Isabel had been lovely to be with. Granted, Isabel had fussed when she had been put to bed, and Alex had whined about having to eat his vegetables, but once he had recited The Cat in the Hat (one of Adele's favorite books that Sherlock had committed to memory after reading it so much), Isabel had fallen asleep, and explained to Alex the benefits of eating vegetables, these matters had been put to rest.

John laughed. "We'll see."

Sherlock tried to look indifferent to the idea. He sincerely hoped that he didn't let on that he actually wouldn't mind doing this on a regular basis. Irene and Adele weren't anywhere near being out of the forest in regards to their safety, and the more and more exposure he had to the two Watson children would raise more and more questions regarding the origins of Sherlock's paternal instincts.

But, if he could be of some help to John and Mary, he was willing to stick his head out a little bit. Besides, Alex and Isabel could be an interesting experiment.


	26. Chapter 26

That summer in London was one of the strangest summers that Sherlock had experienced. Mary and John were more willing to have Sherlock babysit, considering that both kids had taken to Sherlock and he seemed to do a really good job with the responsibility.

It seemed as though Sherlock spent the summer in the park. Mary had taken a part-time job as a receptionist, and as result, Sherlock often had the kids during the morning and mid afternoon. Because Alex was an exuberant little boy who was always trying to find some way to get out of the confines of the flat and Isabel was starting to become more adventurous, Sherlock decided that he was going to get the kids out of the flat and let them get some fresh air.

As Sherlock found out, the park was a lovely place to sit back and figure out people's lives. Isabel, since she was still too little to walk, enjoyed the swings. Sherlock and Isabel spent a lot of time at the swings at the playground. This was a perfect situation for Sherlock—Alex would run around nearby, and Sherlock could scrutinize the other parents without seeming too out of place.

But, the park swings became dull after a while. Alex could spend hours on the play structure, but there was only so much time that the swings would remain interesting to Isabel, who was wont to fall asleep in the swings. As a solution, Sherlock decided that he was going to start teaching Alex and Isabel science, based on what they could find at the park.

Of course, the children were already behind on their basic chemistry education, but Alex and Isabel were intelligent enough to catch up. During the hours that they spent at the park, Sherlock would explain the finer details of virtually anything and everything that Alex pointed out. Alex learned about grass and its biological functions, chemical structures, and uses, not to mention the chemical compounds of the plastics used in the play structure. Isabel learned colors and shapes, and by the end of the summer, could identify different colors by nonverbal means.

In fact, Isabel's first word was "green".

The time that Sherlock had spent with the children on a regular basis had only been about three months, but during that time, the two kids became more aware of the world around them. Alex became more inquisitive, and Isabel learned to walk in the grassy field. Sherlock was convinced that Isabel learned to walk because she saw her older brother running around, examining everything with keen interest and she wanted to join in. John pointed out that she was old enough to learn how to walk, but Sherlock adamantly clung to his conclusion.

Whilst spending his mornings and early afternoons with the Watson children, Sherlock was still productive with ending the Moriarty crime web. Three more members were taken out that summer, leaving him with only five people to take out. It was a success, but Sherlock didn't seem as pleased as he should have been. His despondency lay with the fact that Irene and Adele were nowhere even remotely close to London and instead of spending the summer in the park with his daughter, he was forced to settle for the two Watson children.

It kept him going, knowing that maybe there was a chance in hell that he could relocate them to the Northern Hemisphere somewhere. Maybe there was a chance that Adele could study in London for university. But, that would be years away, and Sherlock couldn't think that far ahead without his head spinning, driving him to insanity. So, he tried not to focus on that, and instead, directed his efforts to less emotional means, trying to ignore Irene and Adele when he wasn't talking to Irene through video chat.

By the end of the summer, he began his countdown to the end of October. It was the day that he would fly to Darwin for Adele's birthday that kept him going. He had no idea when that had started, but the moment that he had acknowledged this fact, it became easier to accept that he actually missed them. He missed his Australian life as Paul Jenkins, and he missed his family—his daughter, his dog, and his partner/girlfriend/wife/parental counterpart/etc.


	27. Chapter 27

By the time that Sherlock returned to Darwin, he had effectively established his life in London once again. He still spoke with Irene extensively via video chats, discussing Adele and her progression, but he had committed himself to never speaking about the three years he had spent away from London. Irene and Adele were even more vulnerable to exposure without Sherlock with them in Darwin.

The video chats were not simply a means of Sherlock feeling like he was still a contributing factor in his daughter's life; they were also his greatest defense mechanism to ensuring that Irene and Adele were safe. He and Irene had discussed the exit strategies if things went awry once Sherlock had gone back to London. Through correspondence regarding their security, they were able to gauge their safety.

Sherlock had taken to meeting with Mycroft to discuss the status of world security since he had been back in London. Mycroft had thought this was odd, but when Sherlock had offered an explanation of taking down Moriarty and his web, Mycroft had obliged to Sherlock's requests to the security reports from virtually any point on the planet, no questions asked. There were benefits to the relationships, especially since it had been Mycroft who had brought Sherlock into the world that he now knew as his own, regardless of whether Mycroft was aware of this or not.

He returned for Adele's birthday at the end of October, making sure to explain to John that it was an Asian organization that had requested his help and it was a solo trip. The week he spent with Irene and Adele was long-needed and seemed to put Sherlock back into the right frame of mind.

Adele had changed considerably since he had last seen her, ten months prior. Her dark hair had gotten longer and unrulier. Her curls were an absolute mess, virtually their own entity that refused to conform to any sort of order. Irene had given up on trying to tame her daughter's hair.

As much as he hated to say it, Adele had emerged an unfortunate phase. She had grown into a very gawky little creature. She had gotten taller, now the tallest girl in her class. She was a scrawny little thing with spindly legs and twig-like arms. Adele had been having trouble seeing the board in class, which led to her needing to get glasses. They weren't very strong glasses, but she was self-conscious about wearing them.

He had to laugh when he saw his daughter for the first time in a few months. She was like a foal, trying to walk, as she ran towards him at the airport, her limbs flailing about wildly. She tripped as she approached him, falling down on her knees. Her glasses flew off of her face, skittering away from her. Sherlock grabbed them up before anyone could step on them and helped his daughter up. "Hi Kitty," he laughed as he picked her up into a hug. "Are you hurt?"

"Nope," she said as she threw her arms around him.

Irene walked up to them and rolled her eyes as she caught Sherlock's eye. "Hi," she murmured as she pulled his head down to her level and kissed him on the cheek. "I see you've been attacked by the greeting committee."

He nodded. "When did she get the glasses?"

Adele pulled back from his shoulder. "I don't like them, but Mummy says that I have to wear them. That's stupid, isn't it?"

"No, that's not stupid. You can't see very well without them, right?"

"But they're dumb!"

"No they aren't. They're like magnifying glasses that you can wear with you wherever you go," Sherlock explained, trying to make the glasses more appealing to her.

He knew that Irene must have had a hell of a time trying to keep those glasses on Adele. Much like her hair, she was stubborn about everything, finding reasons to defy anything that passed her path. She was her parents' daughter.

A little while later, once they were back at the flat and Adele had gone to bed, Irene was getting ready for bed in the bathroom. Sherlock came in and set his toiletry case down on the shelf. Irene turned to face him. "They're like magnifying glasses that you can wear wherever you go?" she asked him, echoing his words from a few hours prior.

"They are," he insisted.

"But that's how you choose to get her to wear them?"

"Wait and see how it plays out before you go and knock the analogy."

Irene laughed and finished getting ready for bed. She retreated to bed, joined by Sherlock a few minutes later. For the first time in months, they both felt somewhat stable. Neither of them would admit this to the other, but then again, it went without saying.

The remainder of the week went without issue. Adele's birthday was as hectic has it had been the previous year, though there were no inquiries about siblings that followed the party this time around. Sherlock, Irene, and Adele spent a good amount of time acting as a typical familial unit, going around Darwin doing errands and other family sort of things. It was a nice change of pace for Sherlock, who was used to working consistently when he wasn't with the Watsons.

Little did Sherlock know, this would be the last time that this world would be as he knew it. The next time he would see Irene and Adele would be a year later, as expected, but otherwise, nothing else would go as expected.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Okay, so consider this a warning. This is an emotional one. I won't say more at this point.

* * *

><p>Sherlock returned a year later for Adele's fifth birthday. The previous year had gone very well for Sherlock, who had successfully taken out the last member of Moriarty's web. Things were finally settling out in that regard, which Sherlock was relieved about. In fact, he felt comfortable enough with the situation that he had started to lightly investigate potential cities for Irene and Adele to relocate to within Europe.<p>

John and Mary had begun to view Sherlock as an extra parent to their kids, who were still continuing to blossom under Sherlock's informal tutelage. Alex had been tested in school, and as it turned out, he was an entire year ahead of his peers. Isabel had begun speaking in full sentences, starting to comprehend what Sherlock was teaching her. Mary had become much warmer towards Sherlock, which finally allowed Sherlock to see what John saw in her. In fact, Mary and Sherlock became rather good friends over the course of the year.

Irene had gotten promoted at work, and was talking about possibly being relocated by her company, something that she and Sherlock had deliberated over for a week before they decided that it was too risky to have Irene relocate to some location that the company specified, rather than one that Sherlock specified. Ultimately, this was the best decision, because as it turned out, the city that Irene and Adele would have had to move to had become a security liability for the three of them.

Adele continued to thrive in school. She had become more confident in herself, and the teasing from her peers had ended. In fact, she had become so confident, she was sent home because she made a boy cry after he had consistently bullied her about her glasses. Apparently, Adele had her father's tact and her mother's sass—a deadly combination. But, it was assuring to know that their daughter could take care of herself in situations like that.

By the time October rolled around, Sherlock was anxious to get back to Darwin. He had been seeing interesting patterns within the southern Pacific region that made him uneasy. He had requested that Mycroft keep him updated on this particular region because he was certain that the patterns would come to something drastic that he would somehow end up getting involved in. Unfortunately, he didn't realize how involved he would be in the culmination of seemingly unrelated events.

Two nights after Sherlock arrived for Adele's birthday, a loud crashing noise woke Irene and Sherlock up. Irene sat up in bed as Sherlock was already out of the bed, pawing around for the gun that they kept in his nightstand. Irene quickly rifled through her nightstand for the knife that she kept in there. They walked out of their room slowly, Irene branching off to go make sure Adele was okay while Sherlock walked towards the rest of the apartment.

Sherlock froze when he saw the source of the noise, holding a gun to his daughter's head. The man grinned at Sherlock as he pulled the trigger.

The shot of the gun was muffled, but Irene's screams were not. Sherlock made no noise as he snapped forward and threw the gunman down to the ground, pulling the trigger as he slammed the gun into the gunman's chest. Irene screams subsided as she swung into action and grabbed Adele from the man, pulling her away from the man's rapidly decreasing grip.

The neighbors did the neighborly thing and called the police, who arrived to the scene ten minutes later. At this point, the world was a series of contiguous blurs and hollow noises. Irene was slumped against Sherlock, who sat stoically on the couch where he had spent many nights trying to get Adele to go to sleep, trying to get Adele dressed, trying to live his life as normally as he could.

The coroner had come to collect the bodies. The police tried to get stories out of Sherlock and Irene, but had backed down on their requests when neither Irene nor Sherlock were in any state to answer such questions.

Hours passed before either Irene or Sherlock could utter any words. It was only when Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed some number in that either of them spoke. He brought the phone up to his ear and drew in a deep breath. "John, I'm not coming home," he informed John before hanging up on him.

Irene had left the sitting room and had retreated to their bedroom. When Sherlock found her, she was curled up in their bed, sobbing into the pillows. Sherlock crawled into bed behind her and curled around her. "I'm not going back to London," he murmured into her hair.

"It's not safe here."

"That's why I'm not leaving."

"You have to go back."

"No I don't. We'll leave Australia and go somewhere else. Get positions at embassies, become ambassadors and have diplomatic immunity."

"No one will take us," Irene sobbed.

"Mycroft has friends in high places. Someone will take us."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Someone."

Irene turned around so that she was curled up against Sherlock's chest. The demure band she wore on her left hand glinted in the early morning light as she moved her hand to tuck it under her chin. She had started wearing the ring when Adele had started asking if she and Sherlock were married and if so, why didn't she wear a ring like the other mummies. Since neither parent wanted to explain to their daughter the finer details of how she came to be, Irene just took to wearing a ring. It had been a birthday present from Sherlock, who had taken the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

As a reference to the conversation he and Irene had had on the plane from Mumbai about how he proposed to her, he had even come up with an elaborate proposal, complete with laser pointers and a series of clues. He hadn't been able to utilize the harness, but he figured that if he had, Irene wouldn't have appreciated the damage a harness would have done to the flat. Of course, this was all done with the understanding that it was not a proposal of any sort and simply a means of ensuring Adele's confidence in her home.

"What did John say?" Irene asked after a while of silence.

"He didn't say anything. I hung up on him."

"Sherlock, you should call him back."

"I'll call him later. When things have settled a little more."

They spent the next four days in that bed, listlessly staring out into space, consumed with grief. Neither of them ate, seldom did they drink, and they most certainly never considered their personal hygiene. The investigation was in full swing, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft was involved somehow because he had foolishly indicated to his brother his interest in the area. With a murder that was obviously connected to Sherlock cropping up out of nowhere, Mycroft was bound to be interested.

By the fifth day, the inactivity and all-encompassing grieving was getting to be too much. Irene rolled over to look at Sherlock, who had long lost his abilities to use facial expressions other than the one of sheer disappointment and grief. She was certain that she saw a few more wrinkles on his face than she remembered, and if she squinted, there were a few gray hairs woven through his beautiful curls. "We need to get out of this bed," she murmured as she snuggled into his shoulder.

"Why?"

"Revenge."

"Sherlock…"

"There is no reason for us to leave this bed. I have no reason to leave for London, you have no reason to leave Darwin, and we have no reason to get out of this bed."

"Sherlock, we need to get out of bed. You're starting to smell weird."

"You're one to talk," he replied quietly.

She knew that he was trying to be a little lighter-hearted, trying to contrast the previous days. But it was rather unconvincing, based on the deadened look in his eyes. Irene pulled away from him and slipped out of the bed. She padded into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, hoping for some sort of an answer, something that would help him figure out who would want to kill Adele.

When Irene came out of the bathroom, having showered and brushed her teeth, she found Sherlock had left the room. "Sherlock?" she called out into the flat.

She walked out of the bedroom and saw that he was in the living room, sitting at his usual spot, staring at the faded spot of blood. "Sherlock," she sighed before sitting down next to him. "Call John."

"And tell him what? Tell him that the daughter he didn't know I had was murdered?"

"Tell him you're coming back to London."

"I'm not going back to London."

"You need to go back to London."

"Why?"

"Because there's nothing left here for you."

He blinked and turned his head to look at Irene. For so long, there had been something, multiple reasons, to keep him from London. The only reason to stay now was urging him to leave. "That's not necessarily true."

"Sherlock, you stayed because of Addie. And believe me: that is noble in itself. But if you're staying just because of me…"

"They'll kill you too."

"Then let them. Don't let Addie's death be in vain. Don't stay because you feel obligated to."

"You think I feel obligated to stay here?"

"Yes."

"You're wrong."

"Why?"

"I'm not obligated to stay with you. I choose to stay with you. It's a choice. It's always been a conscious choice. John won't be around forever, but you… you might."

Sherlock Holmes would never say the words "I Love You" to anyone. Love was not in his vocabulary. But, in the time that Irene had known this inexplicable man, she had seen him demonstrate true understanding of love on a few momentous occasions: saving her from the Karachi executors and replanting her in Darwin, upholding the promise to be with her when Adele was born, the sum of the minute instances where he proved that he was capable of being a good father, and now this: refusing to leave.

"Are you sure about this?" Irene asked quietly.

"Lestrade says that I'm a great man. He told John that one time. He also said that he thought that someday I'd be a good man. Good men don't run in the face of duress. They don't run when things get hard. And right now, even if running were an option, I wouldn't even be able to stand on my own. Why the hell would I want to leave and go back to London, knowing that you were vulnerable?"

Something flicked on in Irene's brain. It hadn't been flicked on in a very long time; she figured that motherhood and domesticity had worn away at this figurative light in her brain. She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. When she pulled away, she saw that he wore a look of confusion. "You really think this is the time?" he asked her stiffly.

"Lestrade is wrong. You're not a good man. You're a fantastic man. But you're also out of your mind."

"Irene."

"Who would take us, in our faded glory?" she laughed. "The former dominatrix and the consulting detective who were supposed to be dead."

"Ireland. I was on the phone with Mycroft. He's setting up ambassadorial positions for us with the Irish embassy."

"Who did you say I was?"

"Elizabeth Jenkins."

"And you?"

"Paul Jenkins."

"Status?"

"In-flux."

She smirked. "That pretty much nails it on the forehead, doesn't it?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"And when will these positions be ready for us?"

"End of the week."

"So when you told John that you weren't going back to London, you were serious, but you didn't mean that you were going to be staying in Darwin?"

"Exactly."

"If it were any other situation, I'd have you on that kitchen counter until you begged for mercy three times," she crooned.

"Ah…" he gargled unattractively.

She moved back from him. "But, I won't. Someday in the future."

His brows furrowed in consideration. "Not sure about that one."

"Darling, you have never objected to me."

"I think it was just a phase."

"Not sure about that one," she murmured as she stood up and left the room, carefully avoiding the remnants of their daughter's blood on the floor.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Two things: First, I apologize for the trauma of the last chapter and I hope that everything makes sense eventually. Secondly, as you may or may not have noticed, the rating has been changed from T to M, per some of the comments that I received for the last chapter. This is only the second piece I've posted on this site, so I'm still working out the process with handling matters like this. I apologize for not putting in a better trigger warning in the last chapter, as some reviewers pointed out.

For those of you whom I haven't alienated with my failure to put in the adequate measures of notification, please consider this a warning for the next few chapters: _Things will remain rather tense for the next two-three chapters_. As you can probably imagine, these chapters were difficult to write, and I'm sure my writing will reflect this. A few chapters in the future will be a lot lighter.

Otherwise, I hope you haven't been too deterred from the story from the last chapter and do stick with this story until the end.

* * *

><p>Their new flat in Dublin was much smaller than the flat in Darwin, but it was much nicer. The windows in the space caused it feel larger than it was and allowed for a lot of light to be let in. Irene particularly enjoyed this aspect. Gladstone hadn't enjoyed the flight to Ireland, but she had taken nicely to her new home. Sherlock was indifferent.<p>

A lot of their belongings had shipped before they had left Australia, so when they walked into the flat, they nearly tripped over the boxes that the landlord had left in the middle of the walkway. Their planning ahead had apparently worked out to their benefit—though, their shins would beg to differ.

During the first few days living at the Dublin flat, more and more things arrived. As the days went by, less and less of the boxes arrived from the Darwin flat. Sherlock was always responsible for bringing in the boxes from the front step.

As Sherlock brought up another box that had arrived (the last of three), an older woman walked past and smiled at him. "Moving in your daughter's things?" she asked sweetly. "It will be nice to have a little girl running around; there are a lot of boys in this neighborhood who only cause trouble."

Sherlock grimaced. "Our niece comes to visit occasionally," he lied.

The woman smiled and continued on her way. With a sigh, he returned to the flat, setting the open box on top of the other two boxes. Neither Sherlock nor Irene was ready to deal with their daughter's belongings, so the boxes would most likely go into storage.

Neither of them could bear to do away with every remnant of their daughter. But neither of them could stand to look at them either.

They fell into an uneasy lifestyle filled with remarkable uncertainty surrounding everything they did. The investigation into Adele's death had exposed an entirely new group of people who wanted to make a living hell out of Sherlock and Irene's lives. Except this time, it was not Sherlock that they were aiming to get at first; it was Irene. Fortunately, with Mycroft and the Scotland Yard were invested in making sure that this group was dealt with accordingly, especially after the nasty shock they received upon learning that Irene was alive and had been connected to Sherlock for the previous five years.

John had been especially angry about the announcement, considering it had torn him apart when he had to lie to his best friend about Irene's death. And then to learn that Sherlock had spent three years with her…

But of course, the topic of Adele had to come into question. Sherlock had remained adamant that any discussion of Adele would be on a need-to-know basis, and that the general background surrounding his daughter would remain very vague. As far as Sherlock was concerned, any discussion of Adele would leave out the detail that Adele was his daughter. Irene, of course, knew that this would not last long and that Sherlock was only kidding himself by thinking that he could keep that very slight detail to himself. She knew that John would be able to figure it out quickly, especially if he ever saw any photos of the little girl.

Sherlock knew this and asked Irene to refrain from showing any pictures of their daughter. In fact, he begged Irene to never show any photos of Adele to John, Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard were allowed to look at the photos, but only because they wouldn't see the instant parallels between Adele and Sherlock. They weren't keen enough to see the similarities and would only think that Adele got her looks from her mother and some anonymous father.

Eventually though, a photo of Adele on her fifth birthday, one of the last photos of the little girl, was passed along to Mycroft via Lestrade. "This is Adele Jenkins," Lestrade explained as he presented the manila folder full of photos and information.

"Irene explicitly stated that this information was not to leave the possession of Scotland Yard," Mycroft protested.

Lestrade looked at him pointedly. "I think you should see this."

Mycroft took the file hesitantly, eyeing Lestrade. "What is it?"

Mycroft opened the file and pulled out the information regarding Adele Jenkins. Within seconds, John knew why Lestrade had given him this file. His eyes widened as he flipped through the photos of the little girl. "No…" he murmured before jerking his head up to look at Lestrade.

"Adele Jenkins is his daughter. She has to be."

"But he would have mentioned that, don't you think?"

"It's Sherlock. Who the hell knows?"

"Do you know that it's definitely his daughter?"

"She has his eyes."

"But Irene has similarly colored eyes."

"Not like that. You know that her eyes aren't like his… not that much."

"But is there some chance that she's not his daughter?" Mycroft asked, knowing full well that this little girl was as Holmesian as they came.

"We can do a DNA test to make sure, but why else would Irene put her child in the way of Sherlock if it wasn't his? She strikes me as a very intelligent woman who was vested in her child."

"It strikes me as impossible that Sherlock would be a father."

"Same. But… the evidence here… He's registered as Paul Jenkins in the diplomatic paperwork. Married to Elizabeth Jenkins."

"And the birth certificate follows suit."

"All the evidence links him to this little girl."

"But that doesn't necessarily reflect the biological status," Mycroft finished. "God…"

Lestrade laughed awkwardly and sat down in the chair behind him. "But seriously… if she's not his daughter, I would be hard-pressed to believe the results. The resemblance is uncanny."

Mycroft glanced down at the photos again and a small smile appeared on his face. "She… she must have been brilliant," he remarked.

Lestrade nodded. "I have no doubt that she was."

Mycroft, while still examining the photo, hummed to himself. "She was five, no?"

"Within days of her birthday."

"So she was born in October."

"Yes."

"Which meant that, best case, she was conceived in…" his voice faltered.

"January?"

"Late January or early February… after the phone incident."

"The phone incident?" Lestrade asked in interest.

"Her phone was of national importance. Sherlock managed to get the phone from her and released the information to the government, thus destroying Irene Adler. As a means of revenge… Irene must have had her way with him…"

Lestrade raised his eyebrow in interest. "Well… this is a little awkward."

"What the hell happened during those three years?" Mycroft asked finally, letting out a short laugh. "I can't possibly imagine how that might have gone well."

Lestrade shrugged. "We may never know. But, if there's anything we can take from this, it is the fact that Adele Jenkins meant something here."

"It would explain why John says that he's good with Alexander and Isabel. If he's already been a dad, gone through all of the same things we went through, it would make a lot of sense."

Mycroft knew that he would eventually have to ask Sherlock what happened, but for the sake of maintaining the privacy of Sherlock and Irene, Mycroft decided that he would not broach the subject immediately. There was obviously a reason why Sherlock had never mentioned Adele, and it wasn't difficult to assume what that reason was.

And so, Mycroft remained mum about the matter. Despite the fact that Mycroft effectively had access to pertinent information regarding Adele's life, he found himself not actively seeking it out. He chose not to look into the documentation because, somewhere within him, he felt that this crossed the line of decency of his brother's affairs. He grieved the fact that he would never know his niece—the little girl who had grinned at him from the photos that Lestrade had shown him. He would have to grieve in silence along with Sherlock and Irene.

Three months after moving to Dublin, Irene lie awake, unable to sleep. Sherlock must have sensed this, because he started grumbling something in his sleep. "What?" Irene hissed.

"Sleep," he groaned.

"I can't."

He sighed sleepily and draped his arm over her. "Your arm over my chest doesn't help," Irene added.

His arm slid lower down so that it rested right where her ribcage ended. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Do you want to have another child?" she asked him hesitantly.

This woke him up. He moved fluidly to a semi-seated position, his eyes wide and curls unruly. "What?"

"You know… have another baby."

"Oh god… you're not pregnant, are you?"

His eyes were even wider. Irene took this to mean no. "No, I'm not. Don't worry… we're fine. But I just keep getting this feeling that maybe we should try for another."

"Why in the name of sanity would we put ourselves through that again?"

"Oh come on… there were good moments…"

"Do you remember the week that we brought… her… home from the hospital? Everyone cried and no one slept."

"But things got better. Don't you remember when you moved to Darwin permanently and when she started walking… her first word?"

"Irene…"

"So you're completely opposed to the idea?"

"Yes. And you, if you were in a more rational state of mind, would be as well."

"Who says I'm not in a rational state of mind?"

"She was murdered three and a half months ago. Even without all the other details about what has happened in the last few months, it goes without saying that an event such as that would incur serious repercussions. Wanting to replace her with another child is simply a snap-reaction."

Irene turned to face Sherlock. "But what if we did have another child?"

"You would be scared to death. I'd be scared to death. I'd think that the child would have a paranoia-charged childhood that was remarkably constrictive and smothering."

"Oh, you're not serious."

"If we were to have another child, I, personally, would be even more cautious than I was with her. You, as the mother, would be even worse, and no child deserves a childhood like that. No one deserves to be the replacement," Sherlock explained quietly.

"You were the replacement, weren't you?"

"Penelope. No one ever talks about Penelope Holmes."

"Which explains the age gap between you and Mycroft," Irene hummed softly.

"No children," Sherlock stated firmly. "Not again."

With that, Irene slid out of bed and left the room. Tears were starting to form in her eyes; she hadn't expected such a strong reaction from him. Though, in the same, she supposed that a strong reaction would have been the only reaction to elicit from Sherlock. He had always remained rather mum on matters regarding children, even when Irene was still pregnant with Adele he hadn't made any indication that he wanted or didn't want the baby. He had stubbornly clung to the conviction that he just didn't want any unnecessary attachments, such as Irene or Adele.

She knew the real reason that he opposed having another child, and it was the same reason why she opposed the thought. Neither of them had wanted to be put into a position of such vulnerability, and from the moment that Adele had been put into their arms for the first time, they both became painfully vulnerable, to the point that the process of grieving the death of their child—a process difficult for anyone—was even more excruciatingly painful.

Irene knew that Sherlock would never allow himself to be that open again. There was virtually no force in heaven or hell that would ever drive him to be that person again. Not even Irene would be something that could bring him to be that person.

Considering her own feeling on the matter, Irene knew that she would never be able to look at the hypothetical second-child without seeing Adele. Undoubtedly, any other children they could have would bear remarkable semblance to Adele. Irene knew that Sherlock was right. Rationally, she knew that he was right. Irrationally, she wondered if having another child would begin to fill the gaping wound in their life.

The following morning, Sherlock sat stoically at the kitchen table, reading the paper and drinking a cup of strong tea. "Good morning," Irene murmured as she walked into the room.

"I'm going back to London," he announced.

Irene paused. It had been three months since he had been back in London. "Why?"

"This is too complicated. I need simplicity in my life again."

"What are you talking about?"

"You and I are not meant to be together. Adele was a crutch. Children are the only things we could ever have in common, and now that we no longer have a child, you are looking for something to keep me here. I'm not going to be a parent again. Obviously, that venture was not fruitful, and I'm not going to torment you by staying here."

Irene gaped at him, her mouth poised to say something, but the words never came. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Adele was never a crutch. You didn't have to stay," she finally growled.

"I don't know why you thought we could ever be parents."

"I think we did a pretty good job, actually."

"Really? To what extent do you believe that? Don't good parents usually have kids to be parents to? In case you haven't figured it out… we don't have a child to be parents to."

Irene folded her arms across her chest and shook her head in disbelief. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she hissed. "I know you are a monster sometimes, but in the last three months, I thought maybe you've moved on."

He laughed mockingly. "That was foolish."

"Clearly."

Sherlock resumed reading the paper. Irene, in a wave of fury and unable to find an outlet for her accelerating anger, ripped the paper from his hands and knocked his coffee into his lap. She began beating him with the newsprint. "Get out then. Go. Get out and don't ever talk to me again. Just forget about me. You don't have anything to stay for, so get the fuck out of my house and leave me alone!" she screamed.

Sherlock clamored out of his chair and grabbed Irene's arm, trying to keep her from beating the hell out of him. "What is wrong with you?" he cried.

"You! You are wrong with me. You get me fucking pregnant and then cause me to almost die out in Karachi, and then you leave me in Darwin, with your child, only coming back when it strikes your fancy. Adele and I were never a priority, and if we were, we were never your first priority! I had a good life—an amazing life—before you came into it and ruined what I had! It's always been you that's wrong with me!"

"You chose this life!"

"I did no such thing!" she hissed.

"You begged me to have dinner with you; begged me to stay; begged me to be everything, and when I managed to do that, it's still not sufficient?"

"I did not beg."

"Yes, you did."

"Prove it!"

"I don't have to."

He turned to walk out of the kitchen, but Irene grabbed his arm and whipped him around. "Prove it, Sherlock Holmes. Prove that I begged!"

"I. Don't. Have. To."

"Yes you do!"

"Look at yourself, Irene Adler, and find your own answer. I don't have to prove it; you're doing my job sufficiently."

She dropped her hand from his arm and stared at him in despair. "Fuck…" she murmured as she brought her hands up to her face. "What is wrong with me?"

"I'll be in London if you need me. Try not to get killed," he spat callously.

Irene felt her stomach churn when she realized that he had a bag packed and already at the door. She vomited when she heard the door slam behind Sherlock as he walked out.

Sanity had no place in her life anymore.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock returned to the empty flat at Baker Street. The furniture was still there, and a remarkable amount of dusting had to occur, but it didn't take a lot to make it feel like home again. He refused to answer any of the calls that came in, knowing it was either Irene, John calling about Irene, Mycroft calling about John who was calling about Irene, or Lestrade with a case for him. Essentially, it was not worth his while to take calls.

Instead, he lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, wondering why his life had turned out this way. Five years previous, he had had it all: cases, stable relationships, and some reason to stick around. He had a very clear understanding of what his life was, and he enjoyed that.

Even three years previous, he had had a very clear understanding of what his life was. Even six months previous, he had known what his life was. But, that understanding was completely gone. Had Adele really been the key to all of that? Had Adele truly been the one piece that completed the enigma of his life?

Admittedly, had things not gone the way that they had, with Sherlock leaving Darwin after Adele's third birthday, maybe he and Irene would have had another child. Though he would never admit it, he actually would have liked to see what another one would have been like. His preference would have been another daughter, since he had prior experience with the Adler females and would have a better chance at being a successful parent. A son would have just been absolute madness. No one wanted another Holmes boy running around, raising hell.

But now, that point was completely irrelevant. He had effectively destroyed Irene, not once, but twice, because he couldn't bear to let her go. Not that he regretted saving her life in Karachi—that was one of the few things that he would always believe that he had done correctly in his life—but he should have stayed as far away from Australia as possible. Caring had proven to be a disadvantage once again. Vulnerability had killed not one, but two of the most important people in his life. The worst part of it was: one of them was still alive, clinging to the shell of the life that she could have had. The other lived on in only photographs.

He hadn't meant to upset Irene. She had had a valid question that had been rooted in a perfectly natural response to being a parent that had lost a child. She was simply seeking out a means of comfort. That part was understandable; if they were anybody else, with any other past and any other sort of relationship, maybe her suggestion wouldn't have struck Sherlock as so atrocious as it had. But, they weren't married. They weren't really even considered boyfriend or girlfriend. They weren't anything; they just _were_. Adele had been a fluke; there was no guarantee that another one could bode as well.

Sherlock looked around the room, looking at how barren it seemed. It had always seemed sufficient for him and his needs, but knowing that Irene wasn't to far away from him, in the flat in Dublin, he found this room to be inadequate. It was too small. It was too hot. It was too stuffy, too old, too much to deal with.

In a wave of fury, he let out an embittered yell, grabbed the closest thing to him (a spindly kitchen chair) and hurled it at the wall. The wall was not damaged, but his framed periodic table (the one that John had made sure to keep) fell off the wall and shattered. Since this was inadequate for his needs, Sherlock picked up the chair again, and slammed it down on the ground. It cracked, so he repeated this process until the chair was in several pieces. He let out another series of yells, causing Mrs. Hudson to come running downstairs, despite her bad hip. "What in the name of sanity have you done?" she cried out in dismay. "Oh Sherlock…"

In reply, he slammed his fist down on the modest kitchen table and let out a yelp of pain. Mrs. Hudson stood in the corner, alarmed by Sherlock's behavior.

His breathing slowly settled down as he recouped his composure. "Please forgive me," he murmured in a low voice between pants.

"What happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"She and I had a row."

"About what?" she queried in her motherly voice.

"Not relevant."

"Obviously it is…"

"Mrs. Hudson, please. Please just accept that it's not relevant."

She stood silently in the doorway before noticing that his hand was bleeding. "Oh, Sherlock…" she clucked, "your hand is bleeding."

He allowed her to tend to his hand, sitting in the chair that he didn't throw against the wall and destroy, stoically sitting in silence as a means to an end. He hadn't just scared Mrs. Hudson; he had scared himself. What sort of monster had he become?

The Scotland Yard investigation into Adele's death had uncovered some details regarding Irene's past that Sherlock had refrained from mentioning to Irene. Apparently, a previous client of hers had not been satisfied with her service, and had been out for her for the previous few years. His name was Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had effectively killed Moran the night that Adele had died, but that wasn't the end to their encounter.

Moran was connected to Moriarty. Moran was an assassin that Moriarty contracted out, perhaps the one who was to have the heads of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had completely overlooked Moran during his investigation. Moran wasn't a little threat—no, Moran certainly had allies. Allies that would be out for Sherlock and Irene. Irene was safe, for now, with her diplomatic status, but who knew how long that would last.

Adele's death had been a distraction. The quick nature of her death and the shock that had followed had caused them to simply not observe details that they should have seen. It had taken their attentions away from what was really going on and creating a microcosm by forcing them to focus on the one thing that mattered to them most. It wasn't until others got involved and did the fine-tooth combing that Sherlock and Irene finally saw the forest through the trees. Nasty surprises like that never did sit well with either of them.

Which had been why Sherlock reacted the way he did when Irene had suggested having another child. There were many reasons why he opposed the thought of another child, but the most important one was that his job wasn't done. He had taken risks and wrecked most of the things that he held dearest to ensure that he could defuse Moriarty. Irene had begged him to allow her to help, but he never did; he had feared that she too would be burnt if she got too close to what was happening. Everything that he did disclose to her had been censored for her own good. Sherlock wasn't sure if he regretted this choice or not.

Mrs. Hudson finished bandaging his hand up a few minutes later. By this time, he needed to take a walk.

He left the flat and hurried down the street, the cold February morning nipping at him, almost like an incessant little dog that had no proper training. The thought of returning to Dublin briefly crossed his mind, but he knew that Irene would only send him back to London. It would take some time before she might consider allowing him to come crawling back to him, groveling his way to the bedroom for some form of physical activity that she might insist they partake in as a means of working out any residual frustration.

Sherlock stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change so he could cross the street. It had been two years since he and Irene had had any sort of physical intimacy beyond kissing or hugging. Any sort of sex had gone out of the window when Adele had become old enough to ask questions. They had had the sex talk with her, but they had no plans to explain it if she were to walk in on them. They had unofficially decided that sex would lose its appeal if Adele had ever caught them in the act. She was smart enough to infer what it was based on what she saw.

He would give Irene a few days to cool off. Honestly though, he needed a few days to cool off. He needed to have his head put back into the right place so he could go back to Irene and make sure that he didn't completely screw everything up when he returned to Dublin. He had gotten into an unfortunate pattern of ruining people because of his words and actions, so he figured it was best to err on the side of caution when dealing with this delicate matter. Irene could only forgive him so many times, put up with only so much of his faults for so long. She would be safe.

It took three weeks before Sherlock had enough courage to go back to Dublin. He half expected Irene to have taken another lover, but found that she had jumped wholesomely into her role of taking out Moran's web, following Sherlock's example. Of course, they had a series of long conversations regarding their respective issues with their relationship, but ultimately, they came to the conclusion that they would simply be themselves, living just the two of them in their flat in Dublin, going back and forth between Ireland and Britain.

This agreement also included that Irene was to go on birth control (no more relying on just condoms alone) and that Sherlock was to get a vasectomy. Both obliged willingly (Irene more than Sherlock), afraid of what the repercussions would be to their relationship. Given the circumstances of Adele's demise, they had greater things to worry about and couldn't focus on another child or the chance that they might accidentally create another child. The stakes were high and nothing was entirely safe while Moran's men were still out there.

Despite all of this, they settled into a nice pattern of things and established their new life together, finally seeing the benefits of having one another without having to have a reason to be together. It was only then that they truly became a couple, completely reliant on the other without doubt.


	31. Chapter 31

As it turned out, having diplomatic immunity was beneficial to taking out Moran's men. It was also especially helpful in uncovering that Sherlock hadn't actually done away with all of Moriarty's web.

In fact, the last man standing for both parties was Moriarty himself.

Irene had gotten a lead on some information regarding a breakthrough on the case that required them to travel to Klaipeda, Lithuania. "I think it's a viable lead," she explained to Sherlock as he scanned through the information she had presented to him. "It has everything we have been looking for."

"I don't know. I don't want you going alone."

"Of course I won't go alone. That's idiotic."

"Good. Have you renewed your concealed weaponry license?"

"Mycroft handled that matter last week."

"Splendid. How is the issue?"

"More than satisfactory."

"Excellent. Have you worked with the weapon?"

"Yes. I practiced until perfection."

"Wise choice. As soon as we are done with this, the weapons go back to Mycroft and we regain civilian status. I don't like this status."

And so, a few days later, they were on their way to Klaipeda. The flight was long and rather dull, considering Irene slept most of the way there and wasn't of any entertainment value to Sherlock. The first two days in Lithuania were tedious, but important in the way of evidence/information gathering. By the third day, Sherlock and Irene were starting to put together the pieces of information that Irene and Sherlock had both gathered. Of course, as they became more and more aware of what the completed puzzle would look like, they became concerned with what they found.

Their fears were confirmed when they received a phone call early in the morning of the third day. "Come and see what I've arranged for you, Sherlock…" a voice crooned over the phone.

Sherlock dropped the phone as he stared at Irene in shock. "No…" he mouthed silently.

Irene grabbed up the phone and tried to see if she could figure out what he was talking about. The line had gone dead, so she brought the phone down from her ear and hung up. "What?"

"It's impossible…. That's impossible."

"What is impossible?"

"Call Lestrade. Call Mycroft. Let them know that we have an extremely viable lead and might need backup. They are required as soon as possible. As for me, I'm going to see if I can trace where that call came from."

"Sherlock, what is going on?" she hissed.

"Please just do what I've asked. Please."

"No. Not until I know what is going on," Irene affirmed.

"I'm not sure what is going on. But I've got several ideas."

"What are they?"

"Irene, I'm serious."

"As am I. Sherlock Holmes, you better tell me what is going on, right now!"

He sighed. "Moriarty. He's not dead."

Irene's eyes widened. "But you told me that you saw him kill himself."

"Obviously, it was a ruse. This is far direr than we expected. Now, will you please call them?"

Irene nodded and hurried away. Sherlock began to investigate the origins of the call, starting with looking up the number. It was a local number, which indicated that Moriarty, or someone who sounded very much like the man, had been planting the bits of evidence that had led them to Lithuania. This was bound to end horribly.

Self-fulfilling prophecies were Sherlock's strengths. Knowing Moriarty's pattern of things, Sherlock requested that Mycroft enlist confederate assassins who were not affiliated with any party in particular, but had a history of working with Moriarty. (The knowledge that Mycroft had of Moriarty was terribly extensive, given their history.) Sherlock knew that something was going to happen, and if things went wrong, the backing he had of Mycroft was his safety catch.

He disliked the fact that he had to rely on his brother for such a grave circumstance, but he accepted it as a blessing in disguise.

Three days after Moriarty's phone call, a letter was delivered to their hotel room, including a series of clues that Irene quickly deciphered, leading them to one of the buildings of the city's university. Irene and Sherlock knew they were practically walking into their own funerals, but this was the only way to make sure that they avenged their daughter's death.

Immediately upon arrival, Irene and Sherlock were violently separated and taken to separate wings of the building. Irene was taken to the basement while Sherlock was taken to an empty room on the top floor of the building. But, they knew this was going to happen.

Sherlock was shoved into a room plastered with hundreds of photos of Adele. Private family photos that only Sherlock and Irene had access to were up on the walls; photos of Sherlock and Adele when Adele was only a few days old, when Adele was a few months old, a few years old, happy, sad, asleep, awake, running, sitting… alive. None of these photos were from a CTTV camera… these were photos that either Irene or Sherlock had taken. These were personal photos that compromised any hope of having a normal life.

"Say Hello Kitty!" Moriarty called out in his trill tone.

Sherlock looked around at the room, his jaw slack as he felt bile creeping into his throat. He swallowed hard, shoving his physical sickness, his anger, and his emotions down. This required him to be as cool as possible, something he had not been in a very long time.

"Ah… these must remind you of your little Kitty-cat…" Moriarty crooned as he circled Sherlock. "Your little pet."

"Don't call her that," Sherlock snapped, slightly breaking through the ice-wall he needed to keep around himself.

"What? Your little pet, or your little Kitty-cat? I think both terms fitted her well."

"Why is it me? Why are you so fixated on me? Of all the other geniuses out there, why is it me?"

"Because we're one in the same."

"No we aren't."

"Oh, but Sherly, we are."

He was about to comment on that remark before he realized that he would walk right into Moriarty's trap of belittling Sherlock by making him reference films. "I'm an enraged father. You aren't. You're just a sad man who doesn't have anything to live for other than me. And if this is you demonstrating your frustration, well, I'm not sure if I can help you."

"You're not a father. Not anymore."

Sherlock knew that he had to remain indifferent to these comments, regardless of how deeply they cut him. "Have you ever held a newborn child? Have you ever seen how pure they are, how untainted they are issued? It's a beautiful sight, seeing purity in its quintessential form."

"You've gone soft."

"Oh… but that's where you're wrong."

"Sherly Holmes likes talking about babies and kittens and fuzzy warmness. You're just a big old softie. You won't shoot me. In lieu of acquiring courage, you've acquired ovaries."

"Have you ever looked into the eyes of a child and seen yourself reflected back? Seeing yourself as they see you?"

"You've grown dull."

"And you've underestimated me."

"Well, that's a bit of a stretch. Where's your damsel in distress? Is she locked away in a tower somewhere?"

"I wouldn't put it past you."

Sherlock knew that the moment to procure his weapon had come. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled the gun out, clicking the gun out of safety. "Oh?" Moriarty crooned. "Daddy is going to shoot me? What would your little Kitty think?"

"When I left to finish you off, I told her that I was going to fight the bad guys. But I haven't finished fighting the bad guys. I will always keep that promise to my daughter. As her father, she expects it."

"Expected. She's dead. She doesn't expect anything from you anymore."

"My promise still holds."

"For what? You're free."

"Hardly," he scoffed. "I've still got you."

Moriarty laughed. "Aww… how sweet. But don't worry; you'll always have me."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh. In a flurry of motion, Moriarty was on the ground, pinned down by the taller man. Sherlock had the gun to his head, digging it into the skin as much as possible, exerting a remarkable amount of force to his temple.

Sherlock stood over Moriarty. "Just one more thing: I will always be a father. My daughter may not be with the living, but she will always be with me, and I will always be her father. And to prove just how much I will always be her father, I am going to do the one thing you were never able to do—kill the person I actually want dead—skipping the middleman. Adele was never a sacrificial lamb to this cause and never will be. You, however… well, that's an entirely different story."

"I have snipers on you."

"No you don't. You don't know your men very well. They're my men," Sherlock explained calmly. "Miss Irene Adler knows what they like."

Moriarty's eyes widened. He had been acting. The acting had come into play a long time ago. This man knew that Irene was alive, but he hadn't expected that Irene had a connection to his men. Sherlock had taken every precaution to ensure this. "She's alive?"

"In some ways."

He pulled the trigger and felt his heart jump into his throat as he heard the bang. He had just killed a man. A man who he had seen kill himself. Oh, the things that he saw in his life. "More ways than you," Sherlock murmured to the dead man.

As a precaution, he shot Moriarty again, not tying any rational thought to the action he had just taken. All he knew was that Adele Sophelia Adler-Holmes was nothing close to being a sacrificial lamb to her parents' lives.

His feet and instincts took over for any rational thought that might have been able to drive his actions, and he left the room, running through the empty building, looking for Irene. She was either in one of four places: the roof, the basement, an empty classroom, or not there. Each of these options were remarkably viable, so Sherlock went running from room to room, looking for Irene as effectively as he could.

His knees nearly gave out when he found her in the basement, sitting in the middle of the room, tied to a chair and gagged. Sherlock ran towards Irene and started to untie her. "Are you all right?" he asked her quietly as he fumbled with the knots.

She nodded as much as she could, being tied up. He undid the gag around her mouth, pulling it away to find that she had blood in her mouth. "Oh god," he murmured as he wiped her face with the cloth. "What happened?"

Her eyes were filled with terror, but she said nothing. As soon as her hands were untied, she started untying her upper legs while Sherlock untied her upper body. Moments later, the ropes fell to the ground and Sherlock went about examining her. "What happened?" he repeated.

"I'm fine. The only wounds are external."

"Your mouth is bleeding."

"I bit my tongue."

She stuck her tongue out to prove her point. Sherlock had to agree with her; she had certainly bitten her tongue. She had bitten through it. "You've bitten through it," he informed her as he helped her to her feet.

Irene had trouble walking, so he lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder. "Hold on," he ordered as started to hurry out of the room.

He knew that Moriarty had planted a bomb in the room. It was likely that by untying Irene, he had tripped something that would set the bomb off, which meant that they didn't have long to get out of dodge.

As Sherlock suspected, the moment they made it out of the building, an explosive device went off. He dropped Irene and fell to the ground, knocked out by some sort of construction material. When he came to, he was in an ambulance, being transported. Groggily, he glanced over and saw Irene was sitting next to him, her hand gripping his. "Wha…"

"Shh…"

"What happened?" he whispered weakly.

"The building exploded," Irene replied in a strange voice, since her tongue was swollen.

A few hours later, Irene and Sherlock were in adjacent beds in the recovery wing of the hospital, almost ready to be released. The police had already come to get their stories regarding the ordeal. Once they were gone, Irene had stared straight at the wall. She was still shaking from being taken hostage and tortured. Eventually, she would have to tell Sherlock what had happened, but for now, she was going to let him rest.

Three days later, once they were back in Dublin, Sherlock woke up to an empty bed. "Irene?" he called out.

"Over here," she murmured from the chair in the corner.

She was staring out of the window, into the dark street. Sherlock slipped out of the bed and strode over to her. "What's wrong?"

"What did he do to you?"

"Sorry?"

"What did Moriarty do to you? How did he fuck with your head?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "What?"

"He did something like that, didn't he?"

"Irene, what are you talking about? Did he do something to you?"

She nodded silently. Sherlock sighed and crouched down in front of her and reached out for her hand, mirroring a similar situation they had been in years before, the night Irene had come to the flat looking for amnesty. The long fingers of her hands wove around his, the marriage of his warm hands and her cold hands solidifying that they were truly on this path together. "What did he do?" Sherlock asked in a solemn voice.

Irene blinked back her tears and let out a shuddery exhale. "Her voice…"

"What about it?"

"Such intimate details of our lives were violated through the continuous loop of Addie's voice. She was crying, hurt or sad or something… they had a sound byte of when she was first born… your voice was there. And then she kept calling out for one of us, either in play or in fear… that was all I heard while I was in there. It was so loud and I couldn't see anything. It was only after you found me that it stopped. The door must have tripped the loop."

Her voice was barely audible as she struggled through the words. Sherlock knew that this must have been how Moriarty figured he could take them out. Sherlock, as a father, would be more inclined to respond to a visual of his child. Biology had proven that when a child was first born, they likely looked more like the father so the father could discern which offspring was his. Mothers, on the other hand, were more privy to other details, such as sounds, smell, touch, etc. Irene had always been affected by Adele's voice, responding to her daughter whenever she made a noise.

Of course this would have been the tactic that Moriarty would use to torture the grieving parents. As horrible as it was, it was brilliant. Grotesque and awful, but from Moriarty, Sherlock would expect no less.

He lunged forward and pulled Irene into his chest. She let out a loud sob as she forced herself as close to his chest as possible, curling into him tightly. They sat like this for what seemed like ages, until Irene had cried herself to sleep. At this point, he carried her, bridal-style, back to the bed and drew the covers over her. He crawled into the bed next to her and watched her for a few minutes to make sure that she didn't wake up again. After he was assured that she was asleep and would stay that way, he grabbed her hand and fell asleep.

There was no need to mention to Irene what Moriarty had done to him. Not now, at least.


	32. Chapter 32

They were coming up on the two-year anniversary of Adele's death when Gladstone took to sleeping on Irene. Gladstone had always slept on Sherlock's side of the bed, at his feet, but now she was sleeping between Sherlock and Irene in bed, with her head resting along Irene's side. Irene didn't think much of it for a few weeks until she started getting horrible headaches.

One morning, she woke up with a migraine ripping through her forehead. She was in tears when Sherlock gently shook her awake. "Irene?" he asked quietly as he stared at her with concern.

She opened eye slowly, afraid of what the light might mean for her migraine. She hummed sleepily and closed her eyes fully. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Migraine again," she murmured as she brought her hand up to her head.

"We should have John take a look at you. You've been having these migraines a lot lately. I'm worried."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," she insisted.

"Come on… just humor me with this. It's been almost a month of this."

"Month and a half," Irene corrected him.

"So you agree that there is a problem here?"

"No."

"Irene."

"Sherlock, ibuprofen is sufficient to taking the edge off of the migraines. I just need to drink a lot of water and wait it out," she explained.

"I'm calling John," he informed her as he got out of bed and padded over to where his phone was charging on the desk in the corner of the room.

Irene sat up sharply and let out a hiss. "Don't call John," she pleaded.

"Irene, you're obviously in pain," Sherlock countered.

"Since when have you cared this much?" she asked him accusingly.

"Since I decided that it's not just migraines that you're dealing with."

Irene's brow furrowed. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

He turned to look at her, but said nothing. Instead, he started talking to John on the phone and ignored Irene as he walked out of the room.

Slowly, Irene lay back onto her pillows and closed her eyes. Gladstone snuggled closer to Irene, resting her head right above Irene's belly-button, indicating that she wanted Irene to pet her head. She nuzzled against Irene's hand until Irene complied with what Gladstone wanted. Irene had to laugh at the tenacity of the dog.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later. "John says that you need to get in to see someone as soon as possible," he announced gravely.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," Irene sighed.

"He asked about the severity of the headaches, and when I gave a brief description of what you've been experiencing, he made it sound like what you've been having are not good."

"Not good in what sense?" Irene asked.

"Not good in the sense that it might be a more serious issue than you're treating it as."

"Sherlock."

"He didn't say this explicitly, but I inferred that he thinks it might be a tumor."

"A tumor?" Irene echoed, fear creeping into her voice.

She had suspected that there was something more to what she was suffering from, even suspecting that it might be a tumor, but she just didn't see any reason to worry about it. Her grandmother had had a brain tumor, and Irene had seen what her poor Nan had gone through with all the treatments. Granted, the treatment process hadn't been nearly as accurate and non-invasive as it was now, but she didn't want to go through it.

"Please see a doctor," Sherlock pleaded quietly. "I think Gladstone has been sensing that something isn't right, which is why she's been sleeping next to you. They have been able to train dogs to sniff out cancer, so even untrained, Gladstone might be able to sense something is wrong."

Sherlock didn't beg. He just didn't do that sort of nonsense. So, now that he was pleading to Irene to go seek medical attention about her migraines, Irene thought maybe the situation had reached the critical point and she should go to the doctor.

"Fine. I'll call about an appointment today."

"Thank you."

Three hours later, Irene was sitting on the doctor's table, utterly speechless about the diagnosis she had been presented. Depending on who she asked, the news was either very good or very bad. It wasn't a tumor, but the migraines were in fact a symptom of something else.

"Sherlock?" she called out as soon as she returned to the flat.

She heard some cursing in the kitchen. "Sherlock, I told you not to do something so stupid," a male's voice said.

Irene walked into the kitchen to see John and Sherlock bent over some sort of an experiment. "Hi John," Irene said quietly before she looked to Sherlock.

"How was the appointment?" John asked eagerly.

"Um… it was fine," she answered absently. "Sherlock?"

"Tumor?" Sherlock asked.

"Not quite."

He glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "But John said…"

"The migraines are a symptom of something, but not of a tumor."

"Well, what are they a symptom of?"

Irene looked uncomfortably between John and Sherlock. "John do you mind if I borrow Sherlock for a few minutes?"

"Irene, what is it?" Sherlock asked, this time, his tone sterner.

"I would prefer to discuss this with you in private."

Sherlock's face paled slightly. He looked to John. "Excuse us for a moment," he apologized stiffly as he walked out of the room.

They walked to the bedroom and Irene sat down on the bed. Sherlock closed the bedroom door behind him and he sat down next to her. "Irene, you're scaring me."

"I'm pregnant," she spat quickly.

Apparently, it was possible for Sherlock to blanch even more. His eyes were wide with fear and his face remained expressionless until Irene tentatively put her hand on his. He blinked a few times before he shook his head. "No. No, this is not happening again."

"You think I want this?" Irene asked him accusingly.

"No. But we were… careful," he hissed. "We were very careful. I even had…"

"I know, I was the one who took care of you after the procedure. But obviously, these things aren't completely reliable."

He stood up from the bed and started pacing the room fervently. "Irene… this is not good. This is not good at all."

"I'm not particularly thrilled about it either."

"What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know. But we have options that we can look into."

"Irene, there's only really one option."

Her breath hitched as she realized what that one option had to be. "No," she growled as she stood up to level out the playing field. "That's not an option."

Sherlock looked perplexed. "What?"

"I'm not terminating the pregnancy."

"What?" he asked, this time, sounding more taken aback than before.

She stiffened. "Wait… you didn't…"

"No," he said as he shook his head.

"Adoption?"

"You aren't serious, are you? That will certainly compromise international security if we put our offspring onto an unsuspecting couple."

"Well… what are you suggesting?"

"It's not a suggestion," he stated simply before turning to walk out of the room.

"Sherlock!" Irene hissed as she followed him. "We are not done discussing this!"

"Uh oh…" John remarked from the kitchen.

"There's nothing to discuss," he shrugged.

"There's a great deal to discuss!"

"Irene, it is what it is, and no matter how much we discuss the matter, it's not going to change."

John cocked his head. "I'm lost."

"She's pregnant."

John's eyes widened as he looked between Irene and Sherlock. A grin appeared on his face, even though it looked as though Irene and Sherlock were about to rip out each other's throats. "Wait… wow… that's excellent news!" he cried.

Sherlock and Irene whipped their heads around to glare at John. "No, it's not," Irene muttered as she walked out of the room.

John's brow creased as he tried to process what was going on. "Wait… why not?"

"Long story," Sherlock assured John as he sat down at his stool at the counter and returned to his data analysis.

John stuck his head around the corner, looking for Irene, who had gone into the bedroom. He then walked back over to the counter and looked at his friends. "I'm really lost."

"Well, when a man and a woman decide to copulate, sometimes babies are a byproduct."

"Sherlock."

"Believe us when we tell you that we're not parenting material."

"I don't think that's true. I mean, you're brilliant with Alex and Belle."

"Alex and Isabel are exceptional cases."

"Alex and Belle are average kids."

"You should really give your children more credit."

John snorted with laughter. "Well, if it's any condolence, you'd be brilliant as a dad. You and Irene would be brilliant parents. You will be brilliant parents."

Sherlock smiled wanly at his friend, desperately fighting off any thought of Adele. If only John knew how brilliant he and Irene had been as parents…


	33. Chapter 33

John stayed for dinner, but Irene did not eat. By the time Sherlock was ready for bed, Irene had been asleep for several hours.

He walked into the room quietly and found Irene sleeping on her side, Gladstone curled up alongside her. As silently as possible, he undressed and got into bed next to her. She still had her maternal conditioning, able to wake up because of even the slightest noise. One eye opened threateningly. "You aren't taking the couch?" she asked him.

"No need."

Her eye closed again. The threat of her attacking him had decreased, so he continued. "You know, I'm not mad about the situation. I mean, it's not preferable, and I know what we agreed and how we felt…"

"I'm not upset with you, Sherlock."

"You should be… I mean it does take two to…"

"I'm mad because I finally resigned to not having another baby. I was content with not having another baby. I'm mad at the universe."

"Oh."

"I'm scared. I mean… what if…"

"It's best not to hypothesize all the many ways that things can go wrong. Don't set this up for failure. Maybe it's happening for a good reason."

"What on earth are we going to do with a baby?" Irene asked, letting out a shaky laugh.

"Try not to corrupt it?" Sherlock suggested.

"Were we ever successful with that before?" Irene asked.

"I think Adele would have been fine. She would have been seven in two days."

Irene burst into tears and scared Gladstone, who started licking her face. Irene's tears turned into strangled laughs, which sounded strange, which caused her to start laughing even more. "Oh my god… I'm just a mess," she groaned as she brought a hand up to her face to wipe away the tears and dog slobber.

"Yes, you are."

She smacked Sherlock on the arm. "You're not supposed to agree with me!" she said through her stifling sobs.

"I think we've reached the point where I can agree with you and judge you openly," he answered. "Besides, if you're a mess, you're my mess, and I don't mind it."

"Are you seriously sticking to agreeing with me about being a mess?" Irene asked in surprise.

"Yes."

She batted at him again. "You're not supposed to agree with me on that, regardless of whose mess I am!"

"Sorry, but it's the truth."

"Tact, Sherlock. You need to acquire some tact."

"Tact is dull," he insisted.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "We'll be okay, right?"

"Of course. We've got more than we did before. You saw how John reacted. Now imagine that with Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."

"I dread the thought."

"You shouldn't. The baby will be one of the luckiest children in the world simply with John and Mrs. Hudson alone," Sherlock laughed. "Though, I dread how many jumpers we'll have to force the child into."

Irene let out a giggle. "So you're really okay with this?"

"I'm still in a bit of shock, but as long as we take every precaution and utilize every resource available to us, I think we'll be fine. A lot has changed in seven years."

She blinked at him and searched his blue eyes before she drew in a deep, shuddery breath. "Could you imagine how happy Addie would be to learn that she was going to have a little brother or little sister?"

Sherlock nodded quietly, smiling sadly at the thought. "We'd have to explain that you didn't eat the baby."

Irene let out a half-cry/half-laugh as she curled up closer to Sherlock. "I don't think there's ever a moment where I don't miss her. What if we can't be good parents to this baby because of that?" Irene murmured.

"Well, we had our doubts about being good parents to Adele, and we managed. I assume it's going to be a similar experience, with obvious differences, with this one."

"But what if we screw up the baby because we're so caught up with Addie?"

He didn't have an answer for Irene. Truthfully, he was nearing Irene's emotional state as result of all of the discussion about Adele. Of course, he wouldn't tell Irene this, since she had already had a hard enough day as it was and didn't need to know that he was on shaky ground as well. It was his job to serve as a touchstone of sorts and assure Irene that no matter what happened, this was _theirs_, and not just hers. He hadn't taken this approach when she had told him that she was pregnant with Adele, which had allowed him to keep his distance from fatherhood until he had actually held Adele in his arms. Now, seven years later and seven years wiser, the universe had placed them in this situation again, and Sherlock felt that maybe they were supposed to learn something from this experience.

What they were supposed to learn was still unclear, but they now had the opportunity to start again, living this next chapter of their lives. "One step at a time," he finally asserted. "That's all we can do. One step, one day at a time."


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock was in the shower, busy getting ready for his commute into London one January morning when Irene came bursting into the room. "Sherlock!" she cried as she ripped open the shower.

"Ah!" he yelled as he pulled the shower curtain closed.

Irene stood with her hand on her hip, looking at him pointedly. "Two things: one, I've seen you naked on a number of occasions, so it's not like anything is new there; and two, what on earth was that noise you just made?" she laughed.

"I wasn't expecting you to do that…" he replied stiffly. "Why are you naked? Do you need to use the shower and was just hoping to cut down on time?"

"Intriguing thought, but no. Look."

"At what?"

"Just look!"

He looked. "I don't notice anything except for the fact that it now appears as though you are in fact pregnant. But that's nothing new."

Her face fell. "What? You've noticed?"

"Last week."

"What?" she squawked in dismay, "Dammit!"

"Sorry. Downfall of living with someone with hawk-like observational skills."

"Well, thanks for ruining it."

"Sorry."

She sighed. "How did you notice before I did?"

"You don't think I have every inch of your body fully memorized and catalogued?"

He winked at her as he pulled the curtain closed. "You are a bad man," she crooned as she undid her hairclip and stepped into the shower with him.

"Oh, so you do need the shower?"

"Not just the shower."

She started kissing his neck and chest. "Um… can we wait until I've actually finished showering?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to get shampoo in my mouth."

"Light-weight."

"Well, if you get shampoo in your mouth, it's your fault."

"That is easily remedied."

"By how?"

"Not putting shampoo on your head."

"Irene, I have to be on that flight in three hours."

"We'll make it fast," she assured him as she continued dotting his clavicle with kisses.

Fast ended up being fifteen minutes, and Sherlock almost ended up missing his flight. But, in retrospect, it probably wasn't such a bad idea to take a few minutes longer getting ready. When he got home that evening, Irene was already in bed, reading. "How was it?" she asked absently.

"Fine. To be expected. Mycroft sends his congratulations."

"Oh, you told him?"

"And Mummy."

Irene glanced over her book at him. "Mummy… as in your mother?"

"Yes. She alluded to the fact that she wants to meet you."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I avoided the subject like the plague."

She laughed and sighed contentedly. "Did you eat?"

"I ate in London. Early meal."

"There are leftovers in the fridge."

He nodded in understanding as he started undressing. Once undressed, he climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling. "Sorry about earlier. I thought you'd noticed already."

"I was only giving you a hard time," Irene assured him. "Besides, it's more fun that way."

Slowly, he turned over and looked at her. She didn't know what he was doing until she felt a cold set of fingers sliding underneath the waistband of her pajama pants. "Ah! Why do you always have such cold hands?" she squeaked.

He grinned impishly at her and scooted closer, resting his head on her shoulder. His fingers slid across her lower abdomen, almost as if he was prodding around to figure out what was under her skin. Irene's breathing became shallow as she tried to figure out why he was doing this. Sherlock wasn't the sort of man to be curious or sentimental about unborn children. And he most certainly wasn't the sort of person who would start being curious or sentimental about unborn children.

"Any movement?" he asked after a while.

"No. I think it's still too early."

"Shame."

"Since when have you been interested in the happenings of my uterus?"

"Since I've invested in the real estate down here," he deadpanned.

"Interesting way of putting it," she remarked.

"I'm an interesting fellow."

"Sometimes. Most of the time, you're rather irrational and dull," she teased.

She didn't need to see his whole face to know that one of his eyebrows was raised, questioning her. In response, she combed through his curls, noting that he needed a haircut at some point in the near future or else he'd get that uncomely shaggy look. The book she had been reading had long become uninteresting, especially considering how very interesting Sherlock had become.

It hadn't taken her very long to come to the understanding that Sherlock was more than he seemed. She had known, almost from the start, that if you were to prove useful and faithful to Sherlock, he would reciprocate in excess. If you cared for him, he would care for you, regardless of whether it was visible or not. Gentleness to him received gentleness from him. The one thing that Irene had wondered about for a while had been whether vulnerability was something he was willing, not just able, to show. In this moment, as he gazed adoringly at her crotch (for a lack of a more delicate way of putting it), her long-standing curiosities were confirmed.

"You're a sappy git."

He nuzzled closer to her and gave the small bump an affectionate pat, leaving his hand to rest there. Irene could have sworn that she felt his fingers curling to fully cup the small bump, but she attributed this to her imagination and her exhaustion.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know. I haven't the slightest idea. What about you? Do you have a preference?"

She could almost feel him thinking as he contemplated this point. "No," he finally decided. "Both have their pros and cons."

"Such as?"

"A girl would bring up constant memories of Adele, but would have a better chance of having better social skills. Taking after you, of course. A boy would be an entirely new adventure, but I don't think you could handle two Holmes males."

She snorted. "You're right about that last point. I don't know how I manage with just you."

"Do you have a preference?"

Her instinct was to say a girl, but Sherlock's point about having another daughter would mean that there would be a constant reminder of Adele. Having a son might be interesting. But, because he would be the son of Sherlock Holmes, he would automatically be at a disadvantage because he'd be too smart for his own good, running the risk of ending up like his father. There were no guarantees that a girl like Irene would come along and help their son out like Irene had. Then again, if a girl like Irene came along, Irene knew that there was no way, come hell and high water, that she'd allow her son to associate with said girl.

"How about one of both? I can't choose."

"No thank you. One of one is fine."

"Yes… you're probably right about that."

"I know I'm right about that one. We might be decent parents, but we're no where near qualified for twins or multiple children."

Irene wasn't so sure about that one. She had recently come to the conclusion that she couldn't have found a better father for her children if she had tried. That was why, after those years with him, she didn't need him to say the words "I love you". The three words were inherent, ever-present in the eyes and the words and the actions of this man who was starting to fall asleep on her shoulder. He was the reason she still had faith in humanity, the reason she hadn't fallen apart after he had taken her world down by punching in four simple letters to unlock her phone, resulting from his cleverness, and the reason why she wasn't still incapacitated with the deathly fear of having motherhood put on her again. (She was still scared, but not nearly as intensely so.)


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: I don't know what happened with the chapter yesterday. I was having problems with loading the chapter too, so I'm not sure what was going on there. Regardless, it seems like the issues were resolved. And if there were problems with this chapter too, I'm sorry about that too.

Hope you enjoy the chapter!

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><p>By the time Irene was seven months gone, they decided that it was time to set up the nursery. John and Mary had given Sherlock and Irene the crib that both of their kids had slept in (Isabel had outgrown it only a few months earlier), which was a relief to Irene, who couldn't bear the thought of stepping into a baby store.<p>

But when John said that Sherlock and Irene could have the crib for the nursery, they hadn't expected to get an entire roomful of furniture. Upon walking into the room for the first time after the furniture had been moved in and assembled, Irene let out a squeak and marched out of the room. "Sherlock?" she hollered.

She found Sherlock, John, and Mary sitting at the kitchen counter, enjoying tea. "Oh good, you're back," Sherlock observed blithely.

Irene stopped up short as soon as she saw John and Mary. "Hi," she said quickly. "I see the furniture has been set up."

"Excellent observation."

"I wasn't expecting it to be the entire bedroom set."

Mary smiled. "My sister's daughter outgrew her bedroom set, so she gave it to Belle. We figured that you'd be needing all of the furniture anyway, so we decided to bring it all."

Irene smiled weakly. "Well, that is very kind of you. Thank you."

Sherlock was watching her expectantly. "You were calling for me…"

"Oh. I was just wondering where all the furniture came from. That's all."

"And now you know. Tea?"

"No thank you," she answered quietly before she left the room.

An hour or so later, after John and Mary had headed back for London, Sherlock found Irene sitting in the nursery, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair that had been brought in. "Are you okay?" he asked softly as he walked into the room, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"I'm fine," she replied in a small voice.

She had her head bent, drumming her fingers on her belly in some sort of a rhythm. Based on her breathing, Sherlock inferred that she had recently been crying. "Are you sure?"

"Sherlock, I'm fine," she answered, this time in a firmer tone.

"You've been crying."

"Hormones."

"No. I've seen you when the hormones get bad. This is something different."

She didn't answer him. He started walking around the room, inspecting the furniture and calculating something. "I wasn't expecting them to bring all the furniture either. But, it does save us the time and money it would take to invest in these things again."

Irene didn't react, so Sherlock continued. "The room is a bit drab, don't you think? Needs to be cheerier. Yellow or something. I don't think we should paint it. Too much work. Besides, if we were to paint it, it'd have to be one of two colors, blue or pink, and both of those colors are dull."

She still said nothing. Feeling defeated, Sherlock walked out of the room and was gone for a little while. When he returned, he was carrying a box. Irene remained in her thoughts, only breaking from them when Sherlock left the room two minutes later.

When she looked up, she noticed Sherlock had affixed something to the crib. She stood up from the chair and walked over to examine it closer. With a closer look, she realized it was a mobile, handmade by the sight of it. It was made of rich ash wood, sealed with a clear glaze. Hanging from the boughs that moved in a circular motion were wooden birds, flying over the crib. It looked old, several decades, but no more than fifty years old.

Irene sighed and looked out into the hallway. After gently tapping the mobile to make it move, she left the room in search of Sherlock, who was busy going through another set of boxes. "What is all of this?" she asked as she walked up behind him.

"Mycroft, in response to the news that he is to be an uncle, had these things shipped to us. Apparently, these are my baby things. Mummy is equally excited about the baby."

Irene smiled gently as she reached over Sherlock's shoulder into a box that appeared to have old clothes in it. She pulled out a sailor's outfit and let out a giggle. "Oh my god…"

"The photographic evidence that I was ever forced into that has yet to be recovered," he answered.

"I'm sure there is ample evidence," Irene teased. "But why did they send this over?"

"I think they are hoping for a boy."

"Why?"

"Only hope of carrying on the Holmes surname."

"You're not serious."

"You haven't had the misfortune of meeting my family, save for Mycroft. You're welcome for that, by the way."

She batted at his head and bent over him again to paw through the box that the sailor suit had been in. She felt a box, a shirt box by the touch of it. After pulling it from the box, she sat back on the couch behind her and opened the ivory box that was showing signs of yellowing from age. Irene let out a gasp as she pulled the tissue paper aside. "Oh my goodness," she breathed as she pulled out a white christening gown.

Sherlock turned to look at what she was cooing over. "Ah… yes, I figured that might make an appearance. How do you feel about baptism?"

"Is this yours?"

"I believe so. It might be Mycroft's or Penelope's though."

"This is gorgeous," she sighed.

A brief flash of a smile crossed his face before he returned to what he was going through. Various trinkets from his box were set out on the coffee table in front of them, a few photos of Sherlock when he was a small child, a silver cup and spoon from presumably a godparent, and a set of stuffed animals that showed signs of affection. "Ah…" he hummed as he pulled out a small wooden boat. "It's my boat."

Irene looked over and saw the childish grin on his face. "Your boat?"

"Clipper ship, to be exact. I was adamant that I would be a pirate someday."

"You, a pirate?" Irene laughed.

His face dropped. "What?"

"Nothing, it's endearing."

Sherlock eyed her warily before returning his attention to the clipper ship. "I used to really like boats. Not sure why though."

"Did you ever go on a boat?"

"Not until I was an adult. Mummy felt that it wasn't a good idea to feed into my 'silly little notions of being a pirate'. I was supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer since Mycroft took Father's position by default."

"And how did that work out?" Irene asked.

"Wasn't interested in being a lawyer in the slightest, but had I not gotten bored and gone looking for something to quell the boredom, I probably would have graduated the top of my class in medical school. I never technically graduated from university."

"Why am I not surprised?" she clucked as she fingered the lace on the christening gown.

"Father was not pleased. You see: Mummy and Father had expected that I would be the doctor that they could show off to their socialite friends. When I dropped out of Oxford, well, that notion went out the window. I haven't spoken to my father since I dropped out."

"You have daddy-issues?" Irene asked in surprise. "How did I not know about this?"

"You never asked."

"Do you speak to your mother at all?"

"As infrequently as possible."

"And obviously Mycroft…"

"Mycroft is their puppet."

"I see."

"He reports everything to Mummy and Father. I have a funny feeling that if the baby is a boy, Father might magically want to make amends."

"I cannot believe how sexist this is," Irene sniffed.

"Old money… just one of the many perks of it," Sherlock answered lamely.

She drew in a deep breath and sat back into the couch. Irene smoothed the christening gown over her belly and closed her eyes. "What if we aren't cut out for this?" she asked quietly.

It was this discussion again. Sherlock and Irene had had this discussion several (seven) times over the past few months, and each time they had it, it was always Irene who initiated the conversation and it was always Sherlock who assured her that things would work out. If there had been any doubt that they were cut out for parenthood again, it had been knocked out of Sherlock after the fourth time they had had the conversation. "We managed before," Sherlock answered as he stood up and walked out of the room with a few of the trinkets he had pulled from the boxes.

Irene opened her eyes and looked around for him. She waited until she could hear him walking out of the nursery before she spoke again. "I know, but that was different. This time, we're starting fresh, but we already know all of this. I mean… what if you were right to be scared?"

"Irene, we'll be fine. I'm not saying that it's not going to be painful going through this all over again, but if we have learned anything in the last seven years, it is that you and I, despite our respective flaws and idiosyncrasies, make a good team. We took down an international crime web in three years. I'm confident that we'll be able to do parenthood again," he assured her in a very rare moment of genuine care and gentleness.

He had taken to being gentle and caring, characteristics that Irene made ample use of as she tried to reassure herself that they weren't making a huge mistake by going through with this. In fact, she had allowed herself to become more reliant on Sherlock since she had found out she was pregnant. It was a rather foreign concept that she had never really understood until she had been put into these circumstances. Irene had determined that she didn't mind relying on Sherlock, but she wasn't so sure if he was comfortable being relied on so heavily. Since he hadn't made any indication that he didn't feel comfortable with their shifting roles, she didn't bring it up.

"How do you know?"

"There have only been two people in my life who have chosen to stick with me. One of those people is John, and you are the other. There's a reason for why you haven't left, and it's because you get it. That's how I know."

Irene burst into tears again. This time, it was most likely due to the hormones and Sherlock's overly sappy affirmations. She didn't mind that she was a sobbing mess in front of him. He had already claimed her as his mess, and he accepted her regardless of her state of mind or state of physicality. Irene rather enjoyed the stability that being in a long-term relationship had provided, despite the lack of ever having a definitive term for what she and Sherlock were.


	36. Chapter 36

It was unseasonably warm for April. Irene was absolutely miserable, having gone on maternity leave three weeks earlier. She hated being cooped up, and she wasn't handling the last few weeks of her pregnancy well.

It was about ten in the evening when Irene came into the bedroom and flopped onto the bed next to Sherlock, who was busy reading an article on his computer. He glanced over at her. "Hi…"

"Never. Again," she growled.

Sherlock turned his attention back to his computer. "What?"

"I'm never doing this again. You're never touching me again after this baby is born."

He smirked. "Well, we'll see about that one."

"Dead serious."

"Again, we'll see about that one."

She propped herself up on her elbows and glared at him. "You did this to me."

"I thought we established that a few months ago."

"I need to have sex."

This didn't elicit any reaction from Sherlock, which irritated Irene. She felt like a bomb ready to go off, and she knew that Sherlock could help with that. "Oh, come on!" she exclaimed. "Nothing?"

He looked at her with a look of amazement on his face. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," she answered solemnly. "I'm losing my mind."

"I thought I was never going to be allowed to touch you again."

"After the baby is born. I never said anything about right now."

Sherlock laughed. His laughter was short lived, as immediately after he started chuckling, Irene had his computer out of his hands and was on top of him. Her spryness came as a surprise to Sherlock, who had been under the impression that Irene was not able to move that quickly given her condition. "What?" he exclaimed in surprise.

"I need to have sex," she repeated slowly and quietly.

"Right now?"

"Yes, you idiot."

"Irene… I don't like this. I do not like this at all."

"Then propose a different solution to my problem."

"Um…"

He was at a loss for words. He had no idea how to help Irene with this. These sorts of situations where he and Irene would have sex were few and far between, and never had they had sex when she was this pregnant. Sherlock thought that this was rather unnecessary. The procreating part was done with. (Though, when she hadn't been as far along, he hadn't minded her insistence upon sex. He wasn't sure when this had become the case.)

"I'm waiting," Irene murmured as she started dotting his neck with small kisses.

"Irene…" he mumbled as she started kissing his face.

"If you really do not want to do this, we won't. I'll retreat and deal with it on my own. But, if you want to help a girl out, by all means, jump in at any point," she informed him.

All the signs of lust and arousal were present in Irene. She was very flushed, her light eyes were dark, and based on her breathing, it was clear that her pulse was elevated. Much to Irene's delight, Sherlock was exhibiting the same physical response. "Um… what about this?" he asked, poking her belly with one of his very long fingers.

"We'll work around it."

The expression his face was absolutely priceless. Irene was certain the only other time she'd seen Sherlock flustered was when the first met, and she had reliably informed him that smart was sexy. That had been eight years prior, and she held that belief even stronger now.

It took a moment for Sherlock to decide what he was going to do, but once he committed, he committed fully. Although he was clumsy as he tried working around the rather cumbersome obstacle between them, he and Irene quickly adjusted and things got heated.

Eventually, Irene rolled onto her back and gasped for air. She murmured a string of curse words as she tried to catch her breath. Sherlock smirked. "Feel better?" he asked her arrogantly.

"My, my… eight years under my tutelage have done you well, Mr. Holmes," she replied.

He snorted. "Well, based on the yelling, I'm guessing I've received high marks?"

"Smart is sexy," she sighed as she turned onto her side to look at him.

He rolled his eyes. "Any sign of disapproval from in there?" he asked as he gestured vaguely at the bump.

She prodded around for a moment and shook her head. "Probably asleep."

"Even with all the movement?"

"Probably rocked the baby to sleep."

"An added bonus," he remarked.

She nodded and drew in a deep breath before she rested her head on his shoulder. He reached over to get his computer from the nightstand and resumed reading the article he had been reading before Irene insisted that they let off some steam. A few minutes later, Irene fell asleep.

This became a routine they carried out every night for the next three weeks. Sherlock found that it kept Irene from losing her mind and it helped him keep his focus. During that three-week period, he figured he was three times as productive than if he and Irene didn't have their nightly round of sex.

On the Monday of the fourth week, Irene was ready. She was already stripped bare and on the bed by the time Sherlock came to bed. She had been anxious all day, and had been looking forward to this activity all day. Sherlock seemed to be ready too.

Things were getting intense when Irene stilled whilst on top of Sherlock. Her eyes widened and she blanched. "What?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

She shook her head, but made no movement. It was as if she was waiting for something. A moment or two later, it appeared as though what she was waiting for happened again. "I guess what they say about sex inducing labor," she murmured quietly as she climbed off of Sherlock and walked off to the bathroom.

It was Sherlock's turn to blanch. He followed closely after her into the bathroom. "Are you sure?"

"I'm going to take a shower and see if this keeps up. I'd hate to go to the hospital and have to come back because it was false labor."

"Okay. I'm going to go get dressed and call John to let him know what is going on."

Twenty minutes later, Irene came out of the bedroom, freshly showered and dressed, carrying her overnight bag. "It's show time," she announced as she walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was on the phone with John and nodded in acknowledgement.

"Okay, John. We'll see you as soon as you get there…. Right, it's the National Maternity Hospital. Okay. See you then." He hung up the phone and looked to Irene, who looked nervous. "Ready?"

"Not sure."

"It's okay. I'm not sure either."


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: Hello again! A quick word before the chapter: Thank you so much for your continued reviews and other feedback. I really appreciate it, especially Amelia's review yesterday that pointed out a continuity error regarding their sex life. That's the problem with writing the chapters slightly out of order... minute details get overlooked. It has since then been fixed, so if nothing too glaring stuck out for you when you read the previous chapter, that's why. (Thank you Amelia!)

Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy!

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><p>The thing about maternity wards, Sherlock decided, was that they were far too busy. They were too rushed, too hasty about the welcoming of new life. Life was supposed to be sacred, but here, in the maternity ward, the sanctity of life was cheapened… they were simply another face, another number in the system.<p>

He decided that he didn't like this maternity ward. He generally didn't like hospitals; the only hospital that he could tolerate was Bart's, but that was because Bart's had long become something of a place of peace for him. But this hospital, he did not like this. The nurses were too busy rushing back and forth. Of course, he understood it was because of the women who were about to deliver, but the stress that came with delivery seemed to contradict what he believed the welcoming of life meant.

But perhaps, the most unsettling thing about the maternity ward was how vividly he recalled Adele's birth. He had been absolutely horrified by how much pain Irene was in. He had been furious about the fact that no one seemed to care that she was writhing with pain and crying out. The concept of her delivery being normal made sense to him, but the physical ache he had felt as Irene's cries of pain rang out still haunted him. Though, he wasn't sure if he had actually been affected by the situation because of the screaming, or if hadn't nearly as awful as he had perceived because he had associated the screaming with the physical pain of Irene squeezing his hand in a death grip. (He suspected it was the former, vs. the latter.)

Irene had started pacing the room, starting to walk through the contractions. Sherlock could only really support her emotionally. "How are you doing?" he asked her hesitantly.

She let out a shaky breath and leaned over the bed and let out a soft groan. Sherlock stood up and walked up behind her, putting his hands on her back. Her distress was again distressing him, and in a wave of instincts, he tried to comfort her. Awkwardly, he started rubbing her lower back in the hopes of easing her discomfort. Irene drew in another breath and exhaled deeply, humming in mild contentment.

Eventually, she stood up from the bed and resumed her pacing. She kept pacing the room, breathing in the way that her doctor had suggested. She was handling the contractions better than she had when she delivered Adele. Sherlock was braced for when the contractions intensified and Irene became unbearably distressed. He sat on the bed and sometimes paced with her. It went unsaid, but they were both very anxious about the arrival of the new child.

Sherlock's anxieties resided primarily in whether or not the new child would bear any semblance to Adele. He didn't want the infant to be like Adele. He just wanted Adele to be one thing and this new infant to be another. Even if the baby was a boy, if he bore any semblance to Adele, Sherlock didn't know if he would know how to handle it.

Statistically speaking, given the genetic make up that the children would have from its parents made it likely that he or she would have dark hair and a fair complexion. The homogeneity of the genetic makeup of the nearly cooked infant left very little wiggle room for physical appearance differences. Despite this, Sherlock was excited about what might come into the world in—for Irene's sake—the next few hours.

When the pain became too much for Irene, she requested an epidural. She was still far away from delivering, so they were hoping that the epidural would help quiet the pain down. He held her hand as they inserted the catheter into her back, trying not to let out a hiss of pain when she squeezed his hand too tightly as the needle went into her back.

As time went on, he became more and more anxious. His nervous tics went into full swing, and Irene became irritated. "Sherlock, sit down!" she hissed from the bed.

"I can't!"

"Try. You're making me nervous just watching you."

He sat down at the foot of the bed and sighed. "How much longer?" he asked her.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Can't you do anything to… you know… speed things up?"

"Believe me, if I could, I would have done so hours ago," she assured him.

He busied himself by focusing solely on the monitor showing the vital stats of Irene and the baby. Irene watched as he calculated the numbers, finding patterns in everything. "We haven't discussed names for the baby," she realized.

Sherlock remained trapped in his own world until she leaned forward and poked him, bringing him out of his reverie. "Sorry?" he hummed.

"We haven't discussed names."

"Oh."

"Thoughts?"

"Pertaining to?"

"Names for your offspring," she sighed.

"Oh… um… no. No preference."

"That's ridiculous."

"How?"

"You honestly have no preference for what your child is named?"

"It's your child too."

"Right, but certainly you have some ideas for names."

"We went through this when Adele was born. You didn't like the name I suggested."

"Aveline?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't actually mind naming the baby Aveline if it's a girl."

"Really? What changed?"

"I'm not sure. I guess it's just grown on me."

He hummed in reply. Irene sighed. "That's it? A hum?"

"Irene, I have an unusual name. I don't do names. That's your area."

"Fine then. For a boy, I propose that we name him Archibald Xavier."

"No."

"Ah, so you do have a preference," she laughed.

"That is a terrible name."

"I don't know… Archie would be a cute nickname."

"Julian or Thomas. Something normal."

"Julian or Thomas?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay?" he echoed questioningly.

"Yes. Julian Thomas Jenkins. That's not a bad name."

"John will be disappointed," he laughed.

"Julian Thomas Hamish Jenkins," Irene corrected.

"Mummy will be pleased with the number of names," Sherlock informed Irene. "Insisted on giving us an obscene amount of names."

"I've never heard your full name," Irene told him.

"And with good reason," he answered stiffly. "So… Aveline for a girl?"

"Nah-ah-ah… you're not getting out of this one."

"I've never heard your real name," Sherlock countered.

Irene's face fell. "Fine. You got me there."

"Aveline what? What goes with Aveline?"

"Something elegant."

"Well, that narrows it down," he laughed.

Irene didn't laugh along with him. Instead, her brow furrowed and her eyes were filled with fear. "Sherlock… can you go get a doctor?" she murmured. "The contractions are starting to feel different."

He nodded and sprinted out of the room, bringing back a doctor who confirmed that it was go-time for Irene's delivery. Before Irene began pushing, she glanced over at Sherlock, who appeared to be more frightened than she was. "I'm fine. You're fine. We'll be fine," she assured him as she brought him down closer to her and kissed him.

"I know. I'm just bracing for the inevitable screaming that you're going to succumb to in a matter of minutes."

Sherlock gave her a sly smile and she batted at him. But, he was mostly correct about that assumption. The only thing he was wrong about was that it wasn't a matter of minutes; it was only one minute, perhaps not even that long.

The delivery took longer than Sherlock remembered Adele's taking. Irene was louder this time; taking the opportunity to be abusive towards Sherlock in her yelling. Her grip was cutting off circulation to his fingers, but he knew better than to tell her this. This was the time to stand by her and be supportive.

But, at a certain extent, he needed to regain circulation in his hand. Just when it seemed like Irene had been pushing for _hours_ (in actuality, it had only been half an hour of pushing), the doctor announced that he could see a head. This time, Sherlock was prepared. He was not going to make the same foolhardy mistake of watching from the doctor's perspective. It had taken him almost a year and a half before he was comfortable resuming sexual activity with Irene after Adele's birth. And given the habit they had fallen into, he wasn't sure if he could put himself in that position again.

Another five minutes passed and the doctor announced that the baby was mostly delivered. Only one more push and the baby would be out. Sherlock deemed it was now safe to have a look.

As soon as he first caught glimpse of the child, seeing only a full head of hair, he physically separated himself from the bed, stepping back and drawing in a sharp breath. Irene's eyes briefly tracked him, but she let out a loud yell as she gave the final push that brought the child completely into the world. The doctor caught the small body, doing a visual examination to make sure everything was in order.

"It's a girl!" he announced as he glanced up at the new parents.

He only heard the echoing of cries. The world dulled to his senses as he fell into a haze. In the fog, Sherlock cut the cord and then slipped out of the room as Irene took the little girl into her arms, crying tears of joy as she met her daughter for the first time. He hurried down the corridor, to a quiet hallway that had been deserted. It was far from the maternity ward, down by the special care unit as not to draw attention to his crying.

He sank down and let out a sob. The singular sob made way for subsequent sobs that shook his entire body as he released two years of grief, expressing the complete and debilitating anger, despair, and confusion that he had buried for two years. Another daughter… another girl that he couldn't absolutely certify that he would protect no matter what. Another little girl to break every notion Sherlock had had of the world. Another person to potentially lose.

It wasn't like this was new information; this had been present since the day they found out about the baby. But now that she was in the world, away from Irene, this reality hit Sherlock right in the gut, cutting him down, sending him to his knees to preemptively beg for mercy on his daughter's behalf. If there was ever a time that Sherlock hoped there was a god, it was now.

A nurse came by and upon hearing Sherlock, she paused. "Sir, are you all right?" she asked him.

He looked up at her, his eyes swollen and red. "It's a girl. I have another daughter," he hiccupped.

"Did you want a boy?" the nurse asked, taken aback.

Sherlock hesitated. "No. No… she's perfect. Absolutely perfect… it's just…" his voice faltered.

"It's just what?"

"My wife and I had another daughter. She was killed."

The nurse's face fell. "Oh… love, I'm sorry."

"And now we have another one, who is just as perfect as Adele. Adele was the first one's name, though I never called her that. To me, she was Kitty. And now we have another one. And I have no idea how to manage," he sobbed, in the most candid manner he had ever expressed emotion in.

The nurse held out her hand to help him up. "I'm going to take you to a room where you'll have more privacy," she explained.

Sherlock stood up and followed her, wiping his eyes as he went. He sat down in one of the chairs in the room, staring at the wall until the nurse closed the door behind her as she left. It was only then that he resumed his crying. He hadn't realized just how much he actually missed Adele. He had turned off the switch to any emotions regarding his eldest daughter long ago, convincing himself that his adoration of his daughter had died with her. This had been the lie that he had been able to tell himself for two years, and now, it was simply impossible to string the lie along.

The person whom he loved most had just effectively proven to him again that he was capable of love. He had remained so adamant that he couldn't because love meant pain. Love meant extraordinary happiness and the gravest of sorrows. Love, in its consistencies, was the most inconsistent component of humanity and Sherlock hated inconsistence.

Irene was certainly going to give him hell for running out on them only moments after the baby's birth. He knew that he could explain what had happened to Irene, knowing that if he told her the truth, she would understand and probably express a similar sentiment. If John and Mary caught drift of what had happened after the birth, John might give him even more hell but Sherlock would not offer him the same explanation. John and Mary were never to know about Adele. Sherlock could only manage being vulnerable to one person and one person only: Irene.

It took him five minutes to regain his composure before he walked back to the room where Irene was. The realization that he had no idea what his daughter looked like, aside from the fact that she had a lot of hair and was small, hit him as he approached the door to the room. As he peered his head in, he saw a few nurses tending to Irene, who remained blissfully unaware to their presence. He smiled.

Cautiously, Sherlock approached the bed. The baby had been wrapped up in a pink blanket and was nestled comfortably in her mother's arms, her light blue eyes transfixed on Irene. She had a lot of very curly brown hair piled onto her little head. Her cheeks were splotchy and red, tearstained from her first cry. Yes, she was perfect.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into Irene's ear as he bent over the bed and kissed her on the forehead.

Irene glanced up at him and nodded quietly. "You've been crying," she observed.

He inhaled and gave a slight nod. "I'm fine now."

She examined his face and smiled sadly. "Do you want to hold her?" she asked.

"Not yet. I'm not ready to hold her yet," Sherlock admitted.

"Okay."

Twenty minutes later, he reached out and touched his daughter's hand. "She's bigger than Adele," he mused.

"Oh, I know," Irene laughed tiredly.

"Ah… right," he replied as he glanced up to look into her exhausted eyes.

"Do you want to hold her now?"

"Sure. You need to sleep."

Irene nodded as she helped transfer the little bundle into Sherlock's arms. "Remember to support her head…"

"Irene…" he answered flatly.

"Sorry. Old habits die hard."

Sherlock looked at her pointedly before he turned his attention down to the baby, who was asleep. He started to cry again, but this time, he wasn't sure if it was because he was happy or sad. They were bittersweet tears, he supposed.

He sat down in the chair next to the bed, watching the baby sleep. John and Mary were due to arrive soon, so he took the opportunity to acquaint himself with the baby before they were disturbed. Yes, this was a bittersweet moment.


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Hello my Sherlockians! So, it's official: there is an end to the story. I've just started writing the last two chapters, and those will be posted sometime later on next week. Anyway, thank you for your continued readership and reviews!

* * *

><p>Aveline Aurora Jenkins was born during the early morning hours of a beautiful late-April Tuesday. She weighed exactly six pounds, was nineteen inches long, and had given her parents a bit of a scare when she took a little while to start crying after being born.<p>

At least, that's what they told John, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson when they came to meet the little girl. Irene and Sherlock both failed to mention Sherlock's disappearance from the room and his subsequent emotional breakdown, or the fact that Irene and Sherlock had both been crying tears of sadness throughout the first few hours after the infant's birth.

Once the Watsons arrived, Mary busied herself by taking photos of the occasion while John made a few phone calls to inform other less important people of the new arrival. Nurses swarmed the room and more people arrived to the room to meet the baby. Everything worked like clockwork, timely and predictable, leaving Irene and Sherlock feeling rushed and that their privacy was being compromised.

Eventually, the rush died away, and John and Mary went home.

Aveline was brought in for her feeding during the late afternoon. Since Irene and Sherlock were already well versed in this process, the nurse left the room, leaving them alone for the second time as a trio.

"Funny how two people with the same genetic makeup can look so different," Irene remarked as she combed back her daughter's curls.

"I think her hair is going to be lighter than Adele's," Sherlock observed. "My mother had light hair."

Irene glanced up at him. "She did? Where did you get your hair from then?"

"My father had very dark hair."

She smiled. "Well… my father had blonde hair. My mother had dark hair. Maybe her genes will cause her to have lighter hair."

Aveline's gaze was transfixed on her mother. Though emotions were running on high for her parents, she seemed perfectly content being with her parents, blissfully unaware of any older sibling that was tragically absent. Her little hand grabbed at the necklace that Irene wore, the chain with her ring on it. She was more active than Adele had been at birth. Perhaps her curious nature had kicked in sooner.

The following afternoon, they brought Aveline home from the hospital. This time, Irene was far more relaxed about the process and Sherlock didn't need to assure her that they had installed the car seat correctly. There were benefits to having prior knowledge for all of this.

John and Mary had brought several meals to the flat so they wouldn't have to worry about cooking or cleaning. While Sherlock heated up various dishes that Mary had prepared, Irene took a shower. Aveline's cot was in the kitchen so Sherlock could keep an eye on her.

About ten minutes after Irene went to take a shower, Aveline woke up and began squalling. Sherlock turned off the burners before tending to the infant, and walked over to the cot. He lifted her up and brought her to his shoulder. Now it was time to recall all of the tricks he had used to get Adele to go to sleep. "Avi…" he hummed.

He stopped. "No… Avi is a rubbish nickname. I'm sure your mother will use Avi. It's not original in any sense. Hum…"

Aveline seemed to quiet down now that she was being walked around the flat. "Aveline… French for beautiful bird. Birds… Birdy. Birdy. Yes, that's it. You're like a little bird. Complements nicely to Kitty. You probably would have liked Kitty. She would have certainly loved you. She probably would have chased you around the flat, trying to catch you as you ran away from her, antagonizing her like any younger sibling would."

He glanced down at Aveline and saw that she was trying to watch the source of his voice. Another girl who liked the sound of him talking. What was it with these Adler girls and his voice? "We weren't expecting to have another one after Kitty. Mummy will probably tell you that you were not an accident, but while you're still little and probably can't really understand what I'm saying anyway, I'm going to be honest with you: you were an accident. We didn't think we could handle having another baby after what happened to your sister. But, I think now that maybe we're going to be okay. You've got the entire Scotland Yard to look after your safety, not to mention the British government. Your uncle was especially thrilled to meet you," he explained quietly.

Aveline curled closer against her father and let out a little sigh. He could tell that she was relaxing and had stopped fighting sleep. Yup. Another Adler girl who fell asleep to the sound of his voice. That part was going to be easy. It was everything else that was going to be difficult, especially since Sherlock had fallen into fatherhood far too quickly this time around and that scared him. There was no telling how similar Aveline would be to Adele at this point.

But then again, there really was no point in trying to figure it out. If little Aveline Jenkins was her parents' daughter, she going to be her own person with her own opinions, world views, and ways of doing things. She would be exactly like her big sister in that respect. Sherlock knew that somewhere, Adele was very pleased.


	39. Chapter 39

Aveline was a very placid child. She was very quiet, didn't require much attention, and was a good sleeper. But, one thing that Sherlock noticed very early on was the fact that she was always paying attention.

She didn't like strangers. It took a few months before she warmed up to John and Mary, people whom she saw every few weekends. She did not like Mycroft (Sherlock had to agree with her on that point) and remained very uneasy when they were out and about from the flat. Irene was concerned about how anti-social the baby was, but Sherlock seemed indifferent about the matter.

"Do you think there's something wrong with her?" Irene asked one morning as she dressed Aveline, who was trying to escape from her mother's reach.

"No."

"But she doesn't like people. Babies like people."

"Not always."

"Let me guess: you didn't like people."

"No. I was the sociable one. It was Mycroft who didn't like people. But I digress."

"So do you think this is normal?"

"John would have said something if he didn't think it was normal. But he's assured both of us that she's fine."

Aveline, who had been propped up in the seated position by Irene, lost her balance and fell over onto her side moments after Irene stepped away to get something. Sherlock snorted with laughter as Aveline just lay there, staring at him. She started giggling as soon as her father indicated that this was a funny situation by laughing.

Irene turned around and cocked her head. "Sherlock, you could help her," she informed him.

He briefly considered helping her out, but she rolled over onto her back and pulled one of her feet into her mouth. For some reason, she rather enjoyed the taste of her own feet. She grinned as Irene returned and grabbed her other foot to put the sock on. Once that sock was on, Irene was tasked with trying to get the foot out of her daughter's mouth to put the other sock on.

"Tickle her," Sherlock suggested absently.

"What?"

"Tickle her. Works like a charm."

"How do you know this?"

He glanced up at Irene. "I do know how to take care of her, you know," he answered defensively.

"You let her fall over a little while ago."

"She managed to right herself. Besides, she needs to learn how to be self-sufficient."

"Sherlock, she's five months old. Self-sufficiency doesn't come until much later."

"Well, how else is she supposed to learn how to be self-sufficient? And how does that relate to me knowing that tickling her will make it easier for you to put the other sock on?"

"I don't know," Irene answered with a sigh before following Sherlock's advice.

As soon as she did so, Aveline let out a squeak, and her foot fell out of her mouth. It was really irritating when Sherlock knew these things better than she did, but at least he was able to learn these things. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing that he was able to retain knowledge about the oddities of parenting.

Gladstone hopped up onto the bed and licked Aveline's face. She let out a cry of surprise, but didn't start crying. Gladstone curled up next to the little girl and rested her head next to Aveline's.

Gladstone especially liked Aveline. The day after Aveline was brought home from the hospital, she and Gladstone met, and from that day on, wherever Aveline was, Gladstone was likely nearby. Fortunately, Aveline enjoyed Gladstone.

Sherlock and Irene hadn't expected that the dog and the baby would take so keenly to each other. It had been John who made sense of the matter, saying that Gladstone was a good-natured dog and Aveline interested Gladstone. Since Gladstone was good-natured, Aveline was comfortable with her. John even went as far to say that he suspected that Gladstone might have been around children before she came into Sherlock and Irene's lives. (John had the unnerving tendency to dance around the matter of Adele, even though they were certain that he still had no idea that Adele had existed.)

This particular morning was a rather important one for the Jenkins household. Today was Aveline's first time going to London. It was Alex's birthday (he was turning eight) and Irene had promised Mary that they would join them. This, of course, meant that they would be making the five to six hour drive from Dublin to London with an infant and a dog. They had decided to stay the weekend since they still had the 221C flat in their name and it was preposterous to expect that they could make such a long drive twice in one day.

Sherlock had come into possession of a vehicle a few years earlier, shortly after moving from Darwin to Dublin, and now that the trips between Dublin and London were more frequent, the car wasn't a bad idea. It wasn't a very large car, a Ford Focus, but it was reliable enough to transport an infant, a medium size dog, two adults, and all the equipment each party required.

After what seemed to be the drive from hell—Aveline had fussed for three hours straight because she disliked her car seat and Gladstone had started whining because Aveline was distressed—they arrived in London. They were almost late for Alex's party, but instead of stopping off at 221C before heading to the Watsons' flat, they just went directly there.

Gladstone's presence was greatly appreciated by the throngs of eight-year-olds and their younger siblings. Alex was thrilled that his "Uncle" Sherlock and "Auntie Ellie" (a term that they had established the two Watson children would refer to her as) had brought the dog, which superseded any of the elaborate gifts that his friends had given him for his birthday.

Eventually, the party died down, and the children left, leaving Sherlock, Irene, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and a few other family members of Mary and John's at the flat. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, Aveline in his lap, reading a book to her. Isabel was sitting next to him, engrossed in the book while Alex was playing with Gladstone on the floor nearby.

Mary and John smiled at Irene as they quietly observed Sherlock and his little playgroup. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that he's in love," Mary hummed quietly as she finished putting away birthday cake.

John laughed. "Sherlock in love?"

Mrs. Hudson chortled with a quiet laughter. "No, he's definitely in love," she agreed. "That little girl has him wrapped around her finger."

Irene smiled but said nothing. Instead, she dried a platter that couldn't go into the dishwasher. What Sherlock had told her, now almost a year before, about the parenting process being easier being closer to London and therefore, closer to those in his life, had been true. Mrs. Hudson absolutely adored Aveline; Aveline had an impressive knitted cap collection by the time that she was two weeks old. John and Mary were very supportive, always offering little tidbits of advice, some that Sherlock and Irene already knew, some that they didn't. Lestrade even seemed to enjoy Aveline, making an effort to stop by the flat whenever he was in Dublin for a case.

Not surprisingly, Mycroft showed the most affinity towards Aveline. Throughout the party, he had made an effort to stealthily acquire Aveline. Because Aveline already did not like her uncle, his efforts were thwarted when she started to cry. However, when she was seated in Sherlock's lap and Mycroft started talking to her, she was fine with Mycroft. "I don't think she likes me," he observed as Aveline remained nonplussed with her uncle's efforts to make her smile.

"Oh, don't be like that. No one likes you," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Uncle Sherlock," Isabel piped in, "that's not very nice!"

"I agree," Mycroft added, throwing his brother a sly look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced down at Aveline, who was using Sherlock as a lounge chair. Her sharp blue-green eyes were focused on Mycroft, trying to figure out why this strange man was so fascinated with her. One of her rogue curls, now a dark-auburn color, was curled around one of Sherlock's shirt buttons. She let out a tiny yawn as she closed her eyes, bored with the situation. "Well… apparently she finds you dull too."

It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes. "Why won't you let me hold her?"

"She doesn't like you. You've seen how she gets when you try to hold her."

"But you haven't given me a chance to try."

"Since when?"

"You're always at my throat the second I am about to pick her up. She must sense that, which means that she's now associated your hostility towards me with being something to fear. Perhaps if you allowed me to interact with her without any hostility, she wouldn't be so opposed to me."

Sherlock pondered this thought for a moment. Knowing that Aveline was about to fall asleep because she was so exhausted from the excitement of the party, it was likely that she wouldn't fight sleep. "Fine. But you have to be careful with her," he explained as he scooped Aveline up and handed her over to Mycroft. "If she wakes up, it's because either you've been an idiot and woken her up, or she is hungry. Regardless, take her to Irene."

Mycroft gave a genuine smile as he took his niece into his arms. She looked nothing like Adele. Instead, she reminded him of his mother when they were younger. Sophelia Holmes, before going grey, had the same hair color and texture as Aveline. There was no doubt that the little girl had inherited her mother's cheekbones and nose, but the hair and eyes were quintessentially from Holmes gene pool.

From the photo that Mycroft had seen of Adele, Mycroft had decided that Adele had taken more of a resemblance to her mother's side of the family than her father's side of the family. The darker hair and bluer eyes were undeniably from Irene Adler, but the lanky body type had come from Sherlock.

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would ever discuss Adele. Just in the previous year alone, he had almost let it slip that he knew about Adele whilst in the company of Irene and Sherlock, who had been fiercely adamant that the file regarding Adele Jenkins remain within the scope of the Scotland Yard. It had been two years since he had seen the photo that Lestrade had shown him, and he had yet to go searching for more information on Adele.

Even though he could know everything about his eldest niece, Mycroft had very little desire to act upon his mild curiosities. He was certain that if it were meant to be, one day, Sherlock or Irene would broach the subject about their first daughter and how she came to be. But, until then, he was content with getting to know Aveline and ensuring that she had the best possible opportunities available to her. His role in the British government had to have some benefits.


	40. Chapter 40

A loud squealing woke Sherlock up one morning. He knew it wasn't Irene, and it wasn't any noise that Gladstone had ever made. He figured it out when he felt a tiny hand pulling at his hair. "Birdy…" he mumbled into his pillow.

Little hands smacked him all over his back as Aveline woke her father up. She had managed to pull the bedcovers off of his back, and was now trying to find her father's face. More joyful outbursts ensued as she grabbed his ear. "Irene?" he groaned.

He heard Irene's hearty laughs coming from somewhere behind him. A slight clicking noise indicated that she had taken a photo of this. "Lena, where is Daddy?" Irene asked, her voice getting louder as she walked around to Sherlock's side of the bed. "Is Daddy hiding?"

"No… Daddy is sleeping," Sherlock muttered as he buried his face deeper into the pillow.

Aveline moved back so that she was sitting in front of her father. She realized that she could see part of his face, so she rolled over to her side so that she was face-to-face with him. She stuck her finger into his eye. "Ow!" he hissed as he turned his head from the pillow to look at Aveline, who was now grinning.

She stuck her entire hand in his face, grabbing onto his nose and letting out a giggle.

Irene laughed and took another picture. "Mary is going to love these!"

Sherlock turned to look at Irene. "You're not showing these to Mary."

"Oh yes I am," Irene replied saucily. "Look at Lena looking at you."

He turned to look at Aveline, who was staring at her father adoringly. Sometimes, he honestly didn't know what it was about the Adler females and their fascination with him. Especially his nose.

"So," he started as he sat up in bed, making sure Aveline didn't get close to the side of the bed, "what have I done that has spurred you to put the queen of darkness on me?"

"It's Sunday," Irene explained nonchalantly. "It felt right."

She crawled into bed next to them and lifted Aveline onto her lap. "Queen of darkness?" Irene echoed as she fully processed the nickname. "Really?"

He nodded. "She's got that title written all over her."

"I thought that I was the Queen of Darkness?"

"You are, but she does it better sometimes."

Irene laughed. Sherlock's hair was unruly after a full night of sleep. Aveline's hair was just too much to handle sometimes, since it had gotten to be a lot thicker and a lot curlier as she had gotten older. Irene couldn't figure out whose hair was more ridiculous.

"I received more information from the woman who contacted me regarding that case you got last week," Irene announced.

"Oh?"

"She said that she had information that could take the rest of the association down. That, used with what I know, could solve your problem."

"Well, have you done anything with it?"

"As of five-thirty tonight, yes."

"Good," he hummed as he leaned back against the pillows. "Does this mean that Birdy and I will be on our own for the majority of the day?"

"Perhaps. We'll see how the rest of the morning goes. Oh… John and the kids will be coming over this afternoon."

"You choose to mention this now?"

"Actually, I mentioned it a few days ago, so this is serving as a reminder."

"Splendid."

"Oh, come on… you like Alex and Belle."

"Of course I do. I just don't want them running around the flat, chasing Gladstone, with Birdy crawling around."

"Well, John knows how to parent his children, so I'm sure that won't happen."

"It's happened before. Remember when Birdy got that nasty bump?"

"Yes. You threw a fit and nearly fell down a flight of stairs in the process," Irene sighed. "Sherlock, it's fine. The kids will be fine. Besides, if things get too out of hand, you can always step in and call a desist order. They practically see you as an additional parent."

He sighed in defeat. "Can you cancel?"

"No Sherlock… I cannot cancel. Knowing John, they've already been driving for two hours."

He let out a groan and threw the covers off. "Okay then. Well, I had better go prepare the flat for the onslaught of wild Watson children," Sherlock sighed.

"I've already put away the eyeballs. I'm not sure about the appendixes though. Why do you have a jar of appendixes, anyway?" Irene asked.

He slid out of bed. "An experiment."

"Right…"

"Results are fairly inconclusive at the moment, so I decline to discuss the nature of the experiment."

"Seriously?"

Sherlock sniffed and pulled on a shirt. "I don't like talking about the failures of my work."

"Says the man who just put on his shirt backwards."

He glanced down and saw that his undershirt was on backwards. After glaring at Irene momentarily, he righted the shirt and then rifled through the closet looking for a suitable shirt for the day. Aveline let out a loud squeak and started crawling toward Gladstone, who looked alarmed by Aveline's advances. Instead of stopping at Gladstone at the foot of the bed, Aveline bypassed her and fell off the side of the bed before Sherlock and Irene could get to her.

Aveline burst into screams, either seriously injured, frightened by the experience, or both. Sherlock was on the ground next to her within milliseconds of her fall, making sure that she hadn't broken anything. She appeared to be okay, except for a spot on her forehead, where she had taken a hit from the bedframe. Irene quickly joined them and started fussing around. "Is she hurt?" she asked in panic.

"She hit her forehead. She needs ice in order to make sure the swelling goes down."

Irene ran out of the room as Sherlock picked Aveline up and carried her out into the rest of the flat. Fortunately, the fall from the bed hadn't been too far, but the fact that she had hit her head on the way down negated any benefit that the shorter fall might have had. Aveline was still crying as he carried her into the kitchen, but her screams had subsided into loud sobs.

Irene sat Sherlock down on one of the kitchen chairs and started tending to Aveline's head. "Lena… oh, sweetie… I'm so sorry I didn't catch you…" Irene murmured to her daughter as she brushed back some of the curls on her forehead.

Aveline didn't like the cold pack on her forehead and let out a wail. Sherlock started muttering about a case in her ear, trying to keep her calm while Irene tended to her bump. A few minutes passed, during which Irene and Sherlock kept an eye on Aveline to make sure that she didn't demonstrate any abnormal symptoms after her fall. Sherlock had experience with concussions, so he knew what to look for; Irene was making sure that the bruise on her forehead didn't show any abnormalities. Aveline had calmed down and was sitting quietly in her father's lap, grabbing at her mother's face. "Her coordination seems to be unaffected," Sherlock observed.

"Her pupils are still a bit large."

"I noticed that as well. They're not too large though, so it could possibly be the adrenaline causing that. I suppose John could take a look at her to make sure that she's okay when he gets here."

"See? It's a good thing he's coming by."

Sherlock shot her a bemused look but said nothing. He was focused on making sure Aveline wasn't showing any signs of a concussion. She rather liked the attention from both of her parents, even though she demonstrated confusion over their concern. When Irene applied the cold pack to her forehead, Aveline brought her hand up to touch it. "Ah?" she babbled questioningly.

"It's for your bump," Irene explained as she kissed her daughter's cheek. "You've gotten an owie. Clearly, you cannot do your own stunts."

Aveline did not understand this concept, but had determined that she was interested in acquiring control of the thing her mother was holding to her head. She squawked in displeasure when Irene did not let her have the cold pack, but was easily distracted with playing with the buttons on her father's shirt. Fortunately, she hadn't figured out how to unbutton shirts, so Sherlock was safe from being undressed by his daughter.

John and the kids arrived some time later. John deemed Aveline in good shape after an examination, not too dissimilar to what Irene and Sherlock had done. The afternoon went by seamlessly; the Watson children were well behaved and not the hooligans that Sherlock had anticipated them to be. Aveline was determined to keep up with the older children, glomming onto Isabel, who, at age four, was now entering the phase where she was mimicking her mother and playing mummy to her dolls. Isabel was thrilled to have a real baby to tend to, and Aveline was thrilled to have someone to play with. Alex, who was nearing nine, was repulsed by his sister's femininity, and was more interested in what John and Sherlock were discussing.

Regardless, by the time Irene returned to the flat that evening, Sherlock and Aveline were asleep on the couch, exhausted by the day they had had. Both had their mouths open in an unattractive manner, their hair going every which direction. Aveline may not have had the same hair color or facial structure as Sherlock, but in that moment, she was a spitting image of her father. And Sherlock didn't appear to mind the fact that he was asleep on the couch with an infant on him.

Some things just never changed.


	41. Chapter 41

Sherlock and Irene had to go to America for a few days for an ambassadorial conference in New York. This was strictly for work, so Aveline had to stay in London with John and Mary, something that distressed Irene immensely. She had never been away from her offspring for longer than twelve hours, and it was never farther away than an hour or so.

As they packed for their trip—they would be going to London to drop Aveline off and would be flying out of Heathrow—Irene managed to avoid having a panic attack, but was in a constant state of danger. Whenever she was deathly quiet, it was usually a sign of her being under a great deal of stress. Sherlock made an earnest effort not to antagonize her.

Sherlock was concerned about leaving Aveline, but to a lesser degree. He knew that John and Mary were perfectly capable of taking care of their two-year-old. In addition, he had asked John if he wouldn't mind allowing Mycroft and his parents visit Aveline while they were away. It was his way of discreetly killing multiple birds with one stone: Aveline would be kept under the highest degree of security once Mycroft was involved, Aveline could visit with her relatives, and Sherlock could avoid all of the above.

After a long day of meetings and other formalities, they retreated to their hotel room for dinner and what they anticipated to be a brief reappearance of their sex life. Their plans to have dinner and then reacquaint themselves to sex were quickly abandoned the second they stepped into the hotel room. Sherlock had busied himself by discreetly getting his shirt unbuttoned whilst in the elevator. Irene hadn't noticed anything because his jacket had still been on until they were in the room, at which point, both the jacket and shirt came off.

"Oh… so we're not doing dinner first?"

"I figured this was a better approach. We'll appreciate the meal more afterward," he explained as he did away with his trousers.

Irene contemplated this thought for a moment, but shrugged, kicked off her heels, and turned around to have him unzip her dress. As it turned out, they didn't need any remedial period to recall what they had lost during their sexual hiatus.

Some time later, Sherlock lay on his stomach between Irene's legs, his head resting just below her ribcage. "Okay now," he said as he rested his forehead down on her abdomen, "no babies. You got that, reproductive organs in there? We've gone through this before, and you've been good for a while, so let's keep with this pattern. Your job is done."

Irene laughed as she batted at his head. "You're ridiculous!" she murmured.

"Your point?" he asked as let out a deep sigh.

She didn't answer, instead choosing to run her fingers through his hair. He had let it grow out a little more than usual, probably too focused elsewhere to bother with taking the time to have it cut. "You've got a few more grey hairs," she informed him.

"Are we starting this again?"

"It's very distinguishing. Besides, you can't be perfect all the time."

"Well, if we are pointing out flaws…"

"We aren't," Irene interjected warningly. "I like the grey hairs. I hope you get that salt and pepper look."

He snorted. "You would."

"There's nothing quite like watching a man come into his own as he gets older. Men are supposed to be cute and foppish when they're young, but as they grow older, they're supposed to become wiser. Like a fine wine."

"And we've now succumbed to clichés."

"Yes."

He breathed heavily into her abdomen, making an unattractive noise as he did so. The low vibrato of his laugh against Irene caused her to laugh in turn. It was seldom that they were able to have moments like this to themselves. Aveline made certain that any sort of private activities between her parents were not possible, so they had to resort to leaving the country and crossing an ocean in order to have any chance to do so.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starved," Irene admitted. "Shall we call room service?"

Sherlock reached over and pulled the amenities binder from the nightstand. They flipped through the binder and decided what they were going to have brought up to the room. Irene crawled up from underneath Sherlock to go take a shower while he waited to let in the hotel staffer with their food. While waiting, Sherlock received a text message from John.

It was a picture of Aveline with Mycroft, her grandparents, and the two Irish Setters that Sophelia Holmes was fond of. _She's doing fine. The visit went well, and now we're heading back to the flat. Have a great rest of your trip. –JW_

Sherlock smiled. Aveline was evidently have a very good time with her uncle and her grandparents, despite the fact that she had been forced into an atrocious frilly dress that had Sherlock or Irene tried putting her into, would have been inevitably destroyed.

Shortly thereafter, the food arrived. Sherlock briefly contemplated starting the meal without Irene, but thought more of it as soon as he heard the shower turn off, indicating that she was almost done and it wouldn't be long before she was able to join him. She emerged a few moments later, her hair in a towel, tying a knot into the ties of her dressing gown. "Oh, good… dinner."

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "John's texted; Birdy is fine. Sent a photo."

He showed her his phone and Irene snorted. "Did they have to tranquilize her to get her to agree to wearing that dress?" she asked rhetorically.

(Aveline was not tolerant to any clothing that was itchy, unyielding, required fussiness, and could not get dirty under any circumstance. It was never determined exactly how they managed to get Aveline into the dress, but bribery was suspected.)

Sherlock shrugged and started to serve the food. Wordlessly, he set up Irene's plate, arranging the food the way that he knew she would have done had she been the one serving her plate. Irene wasn't surprised by how well he did with this task; his attentiveness to detail was ever-present. However, she was surprised by how normal it was for him to serve her plate to her standards. She hadn't realized that they had been together long enough for this to become normal.

It had been years since Irene perfected how he liked his tea and coffee. She knew how he took his toast like the back of her hand, had great understanding that he absolutely could not tolerate raisins, no longer found it peculiar that he loved carrots when they were raw but could not stand them when they were cooked, and that he was allergic to strawberries. (That had been discovered during an interesting night during which they had experimented with different foods in the bedroom.)

Sherlock knew that Irene couldn't stand wine from Bordeaux but loved wine from Napa. (He also knew that vinegar and cold water were the best way of removing red wine stains from dress shirts.) Irene took her eggs over easy or poached—never scrambled or in omelets. She preferred chicken or fish to beef or pork, but if Sherlock made Steak Diane, it usually lead to an exuberant expression of gratitude later on in the evening. She hated vanilla, loved caramel, was indifferent to coffee, but waxed poetic about anything chocolate. But the one thing that Sherlock had learned about Irene over the years of being with her was not the little details regarding her likes and dislikes. Instead, it was the fact that if Sherlock prepared it, she was automatically more inclined to eat it.

He had long learned that she didn't claim to enjoy the food simply because he had made it, as a means of maintaining his ego. There had been many occasions when she had quite a lot to say about the inadequacies of a meal. The reason she was inclined to eat and enjoy meals that Sherlock prepared wasn't thinly veiled. She was like any other woman: thrilled to have someone else make dinner for her. Because he was so detail-oriented, the effort that he put into each meal was evident, and she appreciated effort. Plus, he was bizarrely quite competent with cooking.

They ate their meal in a comfortable silence. And then, as a well-adjusted couple, they fell asleep shortly afterward.


	42. Chapter 42

Sherlock returned from London after taking the late afternoon ferry home, and was greeted by Aveline and Gladstone in the living room. "Giddy-up, horsey!" Aveline shrieked.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, examining the situation. Aveline was wearing a cape, sitting in a laundry basket, using Gladstone's leash as her reins. "Go, horsey, go!" she cried again.

Gladstone was clearly noncommittal to the role she was playing, but walked around the living room, pulling Aveline, in the laundry basket, as she went. Sherlock realized that there were wheels of some sort underneath the basket, so he stepped into the room further, and stepped in front of Gladstone, who stopped in front of Sherlock, looking to be pet. "Daddy, why did you make Gladstone stop? We were playing horsey!"

"I can see that," he mused. "But are you sure that this is the best idea?"

She nodded earnestly. "Gladstone is a good horsey."

"And what does Mummy think of this?"

"What does Mummy think of what?" Irene asked as she walked out into the room.

She was wearing a black dress and ivory pumps. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked her.

"Out. What do I think of?"

"Gladstone and I are playing horsey!" Aveline explained.

Irene internalized the situation and sighed. "Lena, what have I told you about playing with the plant mover?"

"I don't know."

"Oh come on, yes you do. What have I told you?"

"That it's okay?" she answered hopefully.

"Not quite," Irene sighed. "Come on, you need to get dressed."

Sherlock foresaw trouble with Aveline getting out of the laundry basket so he leaned over and lifted her out. She ran away, yelling "Giddy up!" as she raced through the flat.

Sherlock watched, perplexed by the oddities of his daughter. "Is that normal?" he asked Irene quietly.

She shrugged. "Probably."

He nodded and then examined Irene's appearance. "So, where does 'out' entail?"

"Your mother requested an appearance."

"She what?"

"I didn't know what to say, so I agreed to meet her."

This was not going to end well.

A few hours later, Irene slipped back into the flat, quietly coming through the front door because Aveline was (or should have been) asleep. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, working on some experiment when Irene walked in. "Oh, you're up," she observed.

"Birdy has been asleep for several hours, so don't worry about that," he hummed.

Irene smiled to herself and stepped out of her shoes. "So, your mother is an interesting woman," she mused.

"Oh?"

"Asked when she's going to get another grandchild."

Sherlock whipped his head up to look at Irene, letting the syringe he was holding hang precariously over one of the slides he was setting up. "What?"

"Wants a grandson. You weren't kidding about your parents wanting you to have a son."

"No. Absolutely not. We're not doing that again… oh god…"

"I said the same thing. I don't think she took too kindly to that sentiment."

"Oh god…"

"So, how was Lena?"

"My mother brought that up to you?" Sherlock squeaked, still not able to comprehend what Irene had told him.

"Yes, Sherlock. Your mother wants grandchildren."

"What's wrong with the one that she has?"

"Apparently nothing. I'm guessing that's why she wants more."

"You're pushing forty-two."

"I'm well aware of that."

"And she wants us to have another child?"

"It's not completely unfounded. John and Mary want us to have a whole litter."

"Well, they're idiots. My mother is a relatively intelligent woman."

"Babies are babies, Sherlock. Even a woman who is dead-set against children can be even a little impacted by them."

He sat, wide-eyed at the kitchen table. He even set his syringe down on the table and clasped his hands under his chin. Irene had seen this shock on him before, but she still found it hilarious that such a composed man could be toppled by even the slightest mention of a baby. "You're reacting like I've told you that I'm having a baby…" Irene informed him.

"You are?" a little voice asked from behind them.

Irene blanched and closed her eyes before mouthing a curse word towards Sherlock. When she turned around, Aveline was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, clutching her blanket. "Why are you out of bed?" Sherlock asked her, knowing that Irene wasn't in any place to answer her.

"I heard Mummy come back…" Aveline explained. "Mummy, are you having a baby?"

"No, Birdy, Mummy isn't having a baby."

"Why not?"

"Because… um… she's not," Sherlock answered intelligently.

Irene raised her eyebrows at his answer. "Really?" she asked him quietly before turning around to Aveline. "Sweetie, I'm not having a baby."

"But why not?"

"Babies are a lot of work."

"I can help!"

"That's sweet, but taking care of a baby is the job for a mummy and a daddy."

"That are adults…" Sherlock interjected. "Adults who have jobs and who are in a committed relationship with someone whom they maintain an appropriate amount of affection for… not for people who don't fit into all of those categories."

Irene turned back to Sherlock. "And suddenly you're giving her the anti-teenage pregnancy talk?"

"I'm just making sure we cover all of our bases."

She shook her head in disbelief before she returned her attention to Aveline. Aveline was watching her parents in keen interest. "I wouldn't mind having a baby brother or a baby sister. Gladstone doesn't like playing dress-up with me."

"I know Lena, but babies are a lot of work. And Daddy and I are not sure if we could possibly handle you and a baby too!"

"I could help. Uncle John could help."

"Oh lord…" Sherlock muttered as he left the room.

A little while later, Irene walked into the room and collapsed on the bed. "I give up."

"Why?"

"She's a persistent little thing."

"Uh oh…" Sherlock hummed.

"I know…" Irene laughed as she stepped out of her dress and laid it over the chair.

"What if she isn't completely out her mind though?"

"Who? Lena?"

"No… my mother."

Irene stared at him in disbelief. "You aren't serious."

"What if though?"

"No."

"What?"

"Don't go there. You said it… I'm pushing 42."

"It might be fun."

"Sherlock… are you listening to yourself?"

"I know, it's complete madness."

"I'm going to go to sleep. You… just don't lose your mind by being broody, okay?"

"Fine."

That plan promptly out the window as Sherlock inadvertently began to overanalyze the situation and somehow managed to convince himself that another child wouldn't be terrible. Adele had been brilliant, Aveline was turning out to be just fine, so why wouldn't a third be a good idea?

Irene was not thrilled when she was awoken with a proposition to have another child. "Sherlock Holmes… it is four-thirty in the morning. You had better be bleeding," Irene growled as she opened one eye to glare at him.

"What if we had a third?"

"Sorry?"

"A third child. What if we had a third child?"

"No."

"Okay. Sorry to wake you."

He turned over and went back to sleep, leaving Irene to ponder this thought. She lie awake for another two hours thinking about it, until she woke Sherlock up. "Maybe it's not a terrible idea…" she murmured.

"It should seem like it is, but it really isn't," he replied.

"Were you asleep?"

"No."

"What were you doing?"

"Overanalyzing situations."

"You really do this often."

"Always."

"Right… so… it wouldn't be the most terrible thing in the world."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Are we mental for thinking about this?"

"Probably."

"All right then," she sighed.

"I mean, it's worth giving it a shot, right?" Sherlock asked.

"Right. Giving it a shot doesn't mean that we're completely committed to having another child, unless… you know… I get pregnant. In which case, you're in charge of being pregnant."

"I'm afraid I can't help you there."

"Damn," she joked.

"So, are we going to try this?"

"I suppose we are."

"Right then. For all that is holy, do not mention this to John or Mycroft. We'll never hear the end of it."

"What happens if a baby is produced?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Irene nodded and sighed. "Well… if one out of three children is planned, I suppose that's a good track record… 33% success rate."

"Yes it is," Sherlock agreed before he closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.


	43. Chapter 43

Things progressed in such a matter that Sherlock almost felt like he was in a dream. Upon deciding to try for another, not really expecting that anything would come of it, Irene showed up with a positive test about two months later. The first doctor's appointment determined that she was about seven weeks along, which meant that it had taken them only a week to get things going, even with their supposed effective birth control still in nearly-full effect.

Of everyone, John and Mary probably were the most enthused. Mycroft was pleased, hoping this time for a nephew instead of another niece—though he didn't object to having another niece. Mrs. Hudson promptly went about knitting hats for the child. Aveline, despite her previous sentiment of wanting a brother or a sister, suddenly cooled on the matter of having a younger sibling, realizing that having a younger sibling meant that she was no longer the center of attention. Regardless, she was still excited about having the situation.

The pregnancy progressed without issues and they found out that the Holmes family was going to be thrilled by the arrival of a grandson. As Sherlock predicted before Aveline was born, his father extended his congratulations via a note sent through Mycroft, the first form of communication he had had with his father in nearly twenty-five years.

Sherlock had nothing to say to his father, instead of sending a quick note with a scan photo to his parents before disappearing to the wayside once more. As far as Sherlock was concerned, his only focus was on the family that he had inadvertently created as opposed to the family he was born into.

About three months before the baby was born, Aveline was busy scavenging for things to do one afternoon when she came across a sealed jar. It was a pale pink and green jar, kept in her mother's closet. Deciding to inquire about its contents, Aveline took the jar from her mother's closet and walked out into the kitchen. Irene's eyes widened as she saw her daughter with the jar.

"Lena, what are you doing with that?" Irene asked in dismay.

"What is it Mummy? What is in it?"

"That is not a toy. Please give it to me now."

"But what's in it?"

Irene paused and bit her tongue. She didn't know how to answer her daughter in this situation. The jar, as it so happened, was the urn in which Adele's ashes were kept, and Irene had gone to great lengths to make sure that Aveline didn't find it, because she had known that the questions that she didn't want to answer would be asked.

Irene waited until Sherlock returned from running errands before she would explain to Aveline what the jar was for. As soon as he walked into the flat, Irene was up from the couch and at the door to meet him. "She found the urn," Irene announced quietly.

Sherlock was puzzled. "Sorry?"

"Lena found the urn. Addie's urn."

His eyes widened. "Oh."

"She asked what it was for. I didn't know what to tell her."

"Of course. How do you inform your child of something like that?"

"Right. How do you do that? I was hoping you'd know."

"You think I'm the right one for this? One thing I have never been called is sensitive. Or tactful for that matter."

"Sherlock, I don't know how to broach the subject. I mean… she's little… and I don't want to scar her for life."

He thought for a moment. "Let me put these things away and I'll figure something out."

"Thank you."

Sherlock nodded slightly before putting away the few grocery items that Irene had instructed him to pick up. A short while later, he returned to the living room with a plan of action. "Birdy, come here," he called to Aveline.

She skipped over to the couch and jumped up, almost hitting Irene in the process. Irene put a hand protectively over her bump and the other arm out to make sure that Aveline didn't get hurt. "What is it?" she asked her father.

"Do you remember that jar that you found in Mummy's closet?" Sherlock asked.

"The pink and green one that Mummy says isn't a toy?"

"Yes," Irene interjected.

Aveline looked between her parents, her face showing more and more confusion as she processed what was going on. "Is it bad?" she asked quietly.

"Birdy, do you know what an urn is?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, she doesn't know what an urn is," Irene scoffed.

"What's an urn, Daddy?"

There really was no delicate way of putting it, so Sherlock tried to put it as kindly as possible. "When people die, sometimes they don't want to be put in the ground, so they decide to have their bodies burned in a process of cremation. Of course, when people are buried or cremated, they have been dead for a while. Anyway, once a body has been cremated, there are ashes left over. Those ashes are put into an urn, which is what you found," he explained.

He glanced up at Irene to make sure that he was handling this situation with the proper amount of tact. She nodded slightly, indicating that he was doing well. Aveline kicked her legs a few times as she thought about this point. "Daddy… who is in the urn?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and drew in a long breath. "Before you were born, Mummy and I had another baby. You have an older sister named Adele. She is seven years older than you. Adele was killed when we lived in Australia, and we had her body cremated so we didn't have to bury her in Australia and then move here to Ireland. It is very important that you never touch that urn, because it is not a toy. It is very important to your Mummy and me, and we don't want anything happening to it."

"Adele? I have a sister?"

"An older sister."

"She's seven years older than me?"

"Yes."

Aveline calculated through something in her head. Her fingers moved slightly, indicating that she was calculating how old Adele would have been if she were alive. "Adele is ten because I'm three," Aveline finally determined.

"That's right, Lena," Irene answered, smoothing out her daughter's curls.

Aveline glanced between her parents again. "Can I read to Adele if I promise not to touch the urn? I think she would like The Cat in the Hat," she asked.

"Yes, that's fine," Irene replied.

"Good!" Aveline cried as she jumped off the couch to race off somewhere.

When she returned, she had a whole stack of books in her arms and looked expectantly at her mother. "Where is she? I want to read to her."

Aveline grabbed her mother's hand and pulled her from the couch so she could be led to the urn. Irene and Aveline were out of the room for a few minutes, but when Irene returned, she was alone. "That went well," Sherlock observed.

"We're never going to get her out of there," Irene sighed as she sat back down next to him. "She'll be in there for hours."

"At least she's improving her literacy," Sherlock mused.

"By reading to an urn of ashes?"

"She's too young to actually realize what it is. But, I think we're doing the right thing by letting her have an open understanding of what happened to Adele. This is only the first step to it, of course, because she'll eventually have questions regarding how Adele died. Let her read to Kitty."

Irene nodded and let out another deep sigh. "What time are we leaving for the Watsons' tomorrow?"

"No later than ten. We'll beat the traffic, I hope."

The following day, after five hours of driving, Irene, Sherlock, and Aveline arrived in London. Upon arrival at the Watsons' home, Aveline went running into the house, in search for John. "Uncle John!" she yelled as soon as she saw him. "I have a brother _and_ a sister!"

Irene came hurrying in behind Aveline. "Aveline Aurora, what have I told you about running through other people's homes?"

John stared at Irene with a huge grin on his face. "Twins?" he asked in amusement.

Mary walked in after them. "Wait, what? Twins? Are you having twins?" she asked Irene.

Sherlock stepped into the room, met with grins from Mary and John and a look of confusion from Irene. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

"Are you guys having twins?" John asked earnestly.

"Oh god, I hope not," Sherlock muttered.

Irene snorted as she patted his back. "Where are you getting this idea from?" Irene asked John.

"Lena came running in here and announced that she has a brother and a sister," John explained.

"Oh," Sherlock and Irene said in unison.

Based on the downfallen expressions on their faces, John inferred something wasn't right about this situation. "What is going on?" John asked quietly.

Mary took this to mean that Aveline needed to be ushered into the rest of the flat to go find Isabel. "Come on, Lena, let's go find Belle."

As soon as Aveline was out of the kitchen, Sherlock sighed and looked to Irene, who chewed on her lip. "Sherlock, what is going on?" John repeated, his voice now in an even solemner tone.

Sherlock decided that it was time that John learned about Adele. He inhaled deeply before looking to Irene again, hoping for some sort of sign of reassurance, but didn't receive one. It had been Sherlock who didn't want to tell John about Adele, so he figured it had to be him who initiated this conversation with John. "Aveline is correct, but we're not having twins."

John processed this and furrowed his eyebrows. "So you guys have another child…?"

"Adele," Irene murmured from Sherlock's side.

Her eyes were cast away from John's, examining the floorboards of the kitchen. "Adele?" John murmured slowly.

When it hit him, his eyes widened and he cocked his head. "Adele Jenkins—the case that you were working on?"

"One in the same," Sherlock replied.

"Fuck…" John murmured. "When were you going to mention this?"

"We were hoping to keep this in our skeleton closet," Sherlock explained. "As you can probably imagine, there are many reasons why we felt this way, but Aveline found the urn with Adele's ashes and we agreed that it was time to talk about Adele."

Mary walked back into the room and examined the body language of the three other adults. "Has something gone wrong with the pregnancy?" she asked.

Irene glanced up and shook her head. "No, everything's fine with the baby. He's fine. Only one in here."

"So… there's the brother… who is the sister?" Mary asked.

"They had another daughter. Adele. Remember the case that I worked on a few years ago, the murder of the little girl? That was her," John explained stiffly.

Mary let out a gasp and looked between Sherlock and Irene. "Oh no… oh no, oh no… no… you had another little girl… oh no…" she murmured as she drew Irene in for a hug.

"You made me investigate the death of your daughter?" John hissed as he realized that he had been dancing around this secret for years.

"I'm sorry. I knew that if I told you, you would internalize it and not keep an objective view on the matter. I needed objectivism in order to crack the case."

"Which explains why I never saw any photos of the body."

"Right."

"Bloody hell…" John growled as he paced the kitchen. "You've procreated three times. That's two more times than I've procreated, and here, no one ever thought it was possible that you had even had sex!"

"Well, clearly, that's not the case…"

"I know it's not the case, you idiot!" John spat at Sherlock. "How… why… how did you manage to keep this from me?"

"We didn't talk about her. We never talk about her," Sherlock explained.

John turned to Irene. "All that time, you knew I was working on the case…"

"It was a matter of confidentiality, John. I hope you understand that."

"You had better name that one Hamish after the hell you've put me though," John scoffed. "Hamish Hamish Holmes."

"Jenkins," Irene corrected.

"Hamish Hamish Holmes," John repeated with great deliberation.

Sherlock laughed. "John, that's a ridiculous name. We are naming him Percival Hamish Ulysses Jenkins."

John stopped and rolled his eyes. "You name that poor child that, and I'll have you reported."

"For what?" Irene asked. "We've done nothing wrong."

"Maybe not in the eyes of the law, but you've done a huge disservice to me. Who fails to mention a child who they had while they were dead?"

"Well… dead people tend to fail to mention a child that they had while they were dead…" Sherlock quipped.

John left the room without another word. Sherlock followed John out of the flat and out onto the street. "John!"

"Sherlock, you have managed to screw this up too much this time. I understand your desire for discretion, but what really scares me is that you weren't planning on telling me about this. What was her name? Full name. Birthday? Favorite food? Favorite book? What the hell did she look like?" John exclaimed.

"Adele Sophelia Adler-Holmes, although the records will all tell you that her last name was Jenkins. October 29th, 2012. She liked carrots and blueberries. Adele liked Goodnight Moon when she was a baby and the Harry Potter books when she got older. She looked exactly like Irene, but her hair was a lot curlier than Irene's when she doesn't style her hair."

John processed this information. "You were in Asia during the last week of October 2012. But you weren't really in Asia, were you?"

"I cut the cord."

"Right. So when you went to Asia after you were gone for three years and then came back to London… you were where?"

"Australia. I always made it back to Australia for Adele's birthday."

"So you knew that Irene had had the baby and was in Australia when you fell?"

"Yes."

"Right…"

"I'm sorry John. As it was, Adele was a huge target, and those who knew about her were also targets. Plus, given the trauma of losing her, we knew that we could never talk about her without it becoming some huge to-do, as it has, in fact, become."

"I guess we now know why you have always been good with Alex and Belle. You had a child about their age."

"Right."

They stood outside, watching the street, for a few more minutes before they returned to the flat for the remainder of the afternoon. The discussion of Adele continued throughout their stay, concluding with a text message from Irene to John only with a photo attached. She had sent the picture Irene had taken of Adele asleep on Sherlock, only a few days after she was born.

It was time that they include others in this part of their life together. Despite the fact that this inclusion would hardly be easy, they knew that this progression would be conducive to the ever-evolving healing process.


	44. Chapter 44

Julian Nero Hamish Jenkins (Holmes) was born unexpectedly three weeks early in London. Unlike his older sisters, Julian was completely bald, weighed eight pounds even, and had been angry when he came out. In fact, when Sherlock saw his face for the first time, he burst out laughing at the scowl that Julian was giving him. "What?" Irene asked, alarmed by Sherlock's laughter.

"He's not pleased," Sherlock explained as Julian was handed up to his mother.

Irene let out a giggle, laughing through her tears as she took her son in her arms. "God, you're right. Why is he so angry?"

"Not sure. I think he was expecting to be in Ireland when he was born."

His father held him within five minutes of his birth; Sherlock was much more comfortable this time around (third time's a charm). When John and Mary came in to visit, Sherlock was walking around the room, holding Julian and examining his son. The expression on Sherlock's face was not one of awe and wonder, as it had been with Adele and Aveline, but instead, of contemplation. Julian was very different from the other two kids, both in gender and appearance, which meant that this was truly a very different experience.

"There's your boy," John remarked as he walked into the room and saw his friend cradling the baby. "Name?"

"Julian," Irene answered.

"Not Percy then?"

"That was never an option," Irene laughed. "His full name is Julian Nero Hamish Holmes—or Jenkins, depending on who you ask."

John grinned. "You actually used Hamish."

"It's not a horrible name," Sherlock interjected. "Do you want to hold him?"

John held out his arms to take the baby. "God, he's gorgeous. I knew you two breeding was dangerous. You'll need to watch the girls around this one."

"We're hoping that he gets Sherlock's way with women," Irene interjected. "He certainly has a very particular way with the ladies."

Sherlock turned around to look at Irene. Mary laughed. "I think he's done quite well for himself, don't you think?" she asked.

John looked at Sherlock, who looked at Irene, who looked to John, but was actually looking at Julian. "Um… of course," John finally answered, realizing that Mary was the only one who didn't know how Irene had met Sherlock and John.

A few minutes passed of John getting to know Julian before Mary tapped in and took over for John. Meanwhile, Sherlock was on the bed next to Irene, looking like he was about ready to just pass out from exhaustion. Irene had her head against his shoulder, half asleep, but still tracking Julian like a hawk.

Mycroft came in with Aveline half an hour later, and the obligatory photos with the big sister and little brother began. Eventually, things settled down again when Mycroft, John, and Mary left the hospital. All four of the members of the little family were asleep within minutes of their departure.

When they brought Julian home from the hospital, back to Ireland, they entered a new phase of life, a phase of remarkable calm and stability. Irene was working part-time with the embassy in Dublin while Sherlock was working on cases, still going between Ireland and Britain. Of course, Sherlock was still running around in a fair amount of danger, but the danger he was in was trivial compared to what he had been subjected to prior to Aveline's birth.

As strange as it seemed, no one minded how calm it was.

Aveline started school, leaps and bounds ahead of her peers, and promptly decided that she loved football and would do nothing other than play football when she wasn't at school, working on homework, having dinner, or sleeping. Since neither Irene nor Sherlock knew the slightest thing about football, John took over this aspect, helping foster Aveline's evident skill. Aveline excelled in math and science, taking after her father, but also had a knack for foreign languages.

Julian quickly grew from a little baby into a little guy who, as Irene predicted, had Sherlock's way with women. (As it turned out, she had been referring to Sherlock's ability to manipulate women by using his physical and mental attributes to get women's attention.) It took a while for his hair to grow in, but by the time he was five months old, he was a spitting image of his father. In fact, when Mary came by the house one afternoon when Julian was seven months old, she found a photo of Sherlock on the table and thought it was Julian.

When Julian started walking, there was no doubt that they lived in a zoo. With Aveline running around the house, Gladstone running after her, and Julian always somehow slipping away, Irene and Sherlock were always on their toes. They didn't mind; it kept them young and often resulted in exhausted kids by the end of the day.

Life was good; life was comfortable.


	45. Chapter 45

It had been five years since anyone had been in a hospital when Irene got a phone call from John telling her to get to London as soon as possible because Sherlock was in the hospital for some undisclosed injury. Getting a plane would take too long, so she took the car and drove from Dublin to London, dropping the kids off with Mycroft for the afternoon. From there, she continued her frantic journey to the hospital.

Irene rushed into the hospital waiting room, her hair falling out of place and as a nervous wreck. "What has he gone and done now?" she asked John erratically.

"He can't quite jump from rooftop to rooftop as well as he used to," John explained.

Though it was subtle, Irene saw how he winced when he explained what had happened. She knew that he had seen Sherlock jump from the roof of Bart's, so this must have brought up all of the tightly packed-away memories that John had of the ordeal. "But it actually wasn't the jumping that brought him here. He fell and sprained his ankle, though I'm guessing that didn't bother him much, because he kept running. He had a heart attack. The drug use is coming back to cause him grief," John continued.

Irene's eyes flashed. "He hasn't used in fifteen years. I've taken every single precaution of that."

"But he used before he met you. And that's what counts."

She sat down in the chair behind her and stared blankly off into space. "How severe was the heart attack?"

"Caught it early, so he's good in that regard, but I'm sure they're going to want to keep him under observation because of his past."

"Where is he now?"

"Well, that's the unfortunate bit. They've taken him into surgery because they were a little concerned about something else they noticed. His white blood cell count was really high, and he had a fever. He was complaining of some tenderness in his abdomen, so they did an ultrasound and saw that his appendix was inflamed. He's in surgery now."

Irene turned to look at John with a look of confusion. "His appendix? He's in surgery for appendicitis? You scare the hell out of me by telling me a story that alludes to him falling off a building, and then you tell me that he has had a heart attack, but he's in surgery for appendicitis?" she growled.

"I was just telling you what happened," John insisted.

"Don't they teach you bedside manner in medical school?"

"Irene."

"When will he be out?" she asked stiffly.

"Should be an hour or so. Where are Lena and Ian?"

"Mycroft offered to watch them."

"Oh, that should go swimmingly," John laughed.

"Well, he distracts them, and distractions are good right now."

"Right."

And with that, John stood up and walked away, leaving Irene to her thoughts.

An hour and a half later, Irene was taken back to see Sherlock in recovery. Her hands were a little shaky as she was shown to his room, though she was certain that Sherlock was fine. As soon as she opened the door, she saw that he was somewhat awake, though extremely out of it. "Hi," she murmured as she approached the bed.

He turned his head ungracefully towards her. It took him a second or so to recognize whom she was. "Hi…" he gargled.

She laughed and sat down next to him on the bed. It was strange being in a hospital room. Instead of her being the one in the bed, it was Sherlock. "So… you had quite a bit happen to you today," she said softly.

Sherlock scanned the room, seeming afraid or very concerned about something. "Where's Birdy? Where's Ian?" he asked in alarm.

Irene placed her hand on his in an effort to calm him down. "They're with Mycroft."

"Why?"

"Sherlock, you're in the hospital. You fell down and hurt your ankle, had a heart attack, and had to have your appendix removed."

"Ah… well, that explains why I feel funny," he mumbled.

"But I have to ask: why in the name of sanity were you jumping from building to building? You're fifty years old, Sherlock. You're not a young man anymore, but even if you were, you shouldn't be running around like a stunt-man."

"I was on the chase," he explained.

"And I hope it was worth it, because you nearly killed yourself today."

"Irene…"

"I thought we worked through this… you promised me that you wouldn't go around being careless. Could you imagine what might have happened if you had died? What would I tell Lena and Ian?"

He was silent. It was obvious that he was in pain. After all the years of drug use, he had built up a tolerance to many pain medications; even though Irene had committed herself to making sure that he stayed clean, fifteen years without use didn't mean that the tolerance to medication just magically disappeared. Irene felt a little guilty for bringing up Aveline and Julian while he was in such a vulnerable state. She was supposed to be there as a support, not to harp on him about his stupidity. The harping was supposed to happen in a few days.

Sherlock grabbed her hand and closed his eyes. "I love you," he breathed as he let out a heavy sigh.

For a moment, Irene thought he was saying his last words, but as soon as he started snoring softly, she realized that he was fine. She laughed at her hasty conclusions, but felt a slight pang of sadness from the thought that Sherlock was only capable of expression human emotions whilst under the influence of medication. Of course, this reaffirmed every reason why she had always paid a great deal of attention to his arms and between his fingers and toes, always discreetly examining them during times of great stress or boredom. If this was how Sherlock was able to be human, through the use of chemicals and great duress to his body, she'd much rather have a cold, disheartened man sleeping in bed next to her.

After fifteen years of standing with this man, through inconceivable pain and immeasurable joy, she still found him to be the greatest puzzle she'd ever been presented. When she had been a little girl, Irene had had this preconceived notion that when she fell in love, she would be whisked way to some exotic place where she and her beloved would live out their days together. As Irene grew older, came into her sexuality, and established herself in her career, things were stripped away (sometimes literally), to reveal something very different. Love and sex were forced to be separate entities because sex was power and love was weakness. Sherlock knew these things when he met her.

But then, she fell in love and she was whisked away to some exotic place where she and her beloved lived out their days together. Granted, it turned out that it was a flat in Dublin, but it had started out exotically. All the things that Irene had clung to adamantly during the course of her adult life, leading up to when she met Sherlock and had her entire world flipped, had been dissolved and proven to be the opposite. Love and sex were never supposed to be things that were held as separate entities. Love was not weakness and sex was not a play for power. With Sherlock, after fifteen years of knowing this man completely, love was strength and sex was just an added benefit that had regained its value that wasn't monetarily based.

Irene smiled at his sleeping figure. "Of course you do, you sappy git," she agreed as she combed her fingers through his hair, still delighted when she found another grey hair or two even though he was trying to keep those hidden from her.


	46. Chapter 46

They were on the roof of St. Bart's. The wind whipped through their hair, roaring in their ears as it engulfed them. Their eyes were linked as every possible way out flooded Sherlock's mind, causing him to wonder if maybe this wasn't reality.

Moriarty must have put her up to this. That was the only possible explanation for this. She wouldn't betray him otherwise. Unless she was Moriarty and Richard Brooks was real. But if Richard Brooks was real, was he, Sherlock Holmes, fake?

No. He was not a fake. Richard Brooks was not real. Irene was put up to this. "I bet you didn't see this one coming," she crooned as she dragged her finger underneath his chin, her manicured nails scraping the skin as she went.

"No. Irene, no," Sherlock asserted, grabbing her wrists and bringing her to him. "You're not real. This isn't you."

"Oh, but love, this is me," she growled as she flicked her wrists out of his grip.

"No. You're better than this. He's put you up to this, hasn't he?" Sherlock pleaded.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

"Oh no… no, Sherlock, this is me. This is me in my fullest glory. The woman who killed you."

She pulled out a gun and pointed it him. Her sharp blue eyes were deadened, hardened, and nothing like the eyes that Sherlock knew to be hers. They weren't her eyes, despite the fact that they were her eyes. "Irene… what are you doing?"

"I'm the woman who kills you. You should have seen that one coming. I'm the woman who beats you, in a more permanent state, of course."

"Irene, you don't have to do this. You don't have to pretend that Moriarty hasn't put you up to this. Just put down the gun and we'll get away from here… and you and I will be fine. Of course, you'll probably have to go to a mental institution after going to prison for attempting to kill me, but it doesn't have to end like this."

"Oh, but it does," she hissed as she pulled the trigger.

Sherlock let out a scream, feeling the bullet rip through his body.

He woke up from his dream. Someone was gently shaking him. "Sherlock, wake up. It's only a dream. Darling, you're fine."

His eyes flew open and he saw Irene leaning over him, her hair hanging in front of her shoulders. "What… who… okay," he gasped.

"You're fine. It was only a dream," Irene assured him as she brushed his hair off his forehead and brought her lips to the top of his head.

Her eyes were glazed with worry as she saw how deeply frightened he was. His pupils were large, his pulse elevated, but in no way or form was he sexually aroused. He didn't talk about his dreams. Irene knew that they were probably induced by how much pain he was in and knew that she couldn't do much to help him other than to just make sure she woke him up when it seemed like things were getting to be too intense for him.

He leaned back onto the pillow and sighed. Since he was exhausted, he closed his eyes again, forgetting what the dream had been about, and went back to sleep.

The two weeks after Sherlock's hospitalization were especially difficult because, due to his history of substance abuse, he was prescribed with a very low dosage of medication that was strictly monitored by Irene, John, and his doctors to make sure that he wasn't going to slip back into addiction. The medication did very little to help him with the pain of recovery, so he was just in a constant state of pain.

It wasn't until about day eight of his recovery, the day that the pain had noticeably abated, that Sherlock realized that the recovery process from the appendectomy reminded him of the withdrawals he had had when he had tried to stop using drugs in his younger years. He had trouble sleeping, and when he did, he had horrible dreams that he would still be shaking from when he woke up. Though, unlike the times he had suffered through the withdrawals, Irene was there to make sure that he was okay.

As he sat in bed, listening to Irene help Aveline with her Italian homework (as it turned out, Irene was fluent in Italian due to being a quarter Italian from her paternal grandmother), Sherlock mulled over a dream he had had the night after he came home from the hospital that he had only just started to recall.

He knew that it was because his body was under so much stress that he was having these dreams, but they also brought up a very valid point that even though Irene had proven to be faithful to him during their time together, she had once been the enemy. She had openly admitted to him that she had had connections to Moriarty, which had been why she was such a valuable resource to him while he was working to take down Moriarty. Sherlock wasn't sure why he still had his doubts (apparently he still had doubts, if his subconscious would present such a dream to him) but he did.

Julian came sauntering into the room with a book and his stuffed animal. "Daddy, can you read Narnia, please?"

Sherlock nodded and reached out for the book. Julian placed the book in his father's hand and then snuggled against him, clutching his dog (Schrödinger). As Sherlock began to read, he realized that The Chronicles of Narnia, The Cat in the Hat, and Goodnight Moon were the three books that he had read to each of his children at some point in their lives. As he continued to read, he realized that Julian was falling asleep, just as Adele and Aveline had after some time.

Long after Julian had fallen asleep, Irene walked into the room to see Sherlock sitting in bed, staring off into the distance. "What happened?" she asked him quietly.

"He fell asleep when I read Narnia to him. Narnia always does that to him."

"No… this morning. What happened this morning?"

He looked blankly at her. "What do you mean?"

"You woke up screaming. Are the nightmares getting to be that intense?"

"I think these are night terrors, not just nightmares."

"What was it about?"

"I can't remember."

He wasn't lying; he genuinely could not remember the dream, though slight details were starting to come back to him. "You were there. I think."

Her brow furrowed. "What else?"

"Bart's. We were at Bart's."

Her eyes widened as she started to put the pieces together. "The fall. Your subconscious is processing the event by dreaming about it."

"That's what I was thinking; but why would you have been there?"

"I don't know. What else do you remember? Was Moriarty there?"

Moriarty's name triggered the full recollection of the dream. Sherlock winced slightly as he found the full memory of the dream. "No. You were Moriarty. And you shot me."

Irene's face fell and she grabbed his hand, avoiding Julian to make sure she didn't wake him up. "I killed you in your dream?"

"The woman who beat me more permanently," he murmured.

"Have you been having these dreams more frequently lately?"

"Not quite like this, but yes."

"I want you to talk to John about this. I think you're suffering from PTSD. The last fifteen years have been stressful to you, and I think your hospitalization and recovery has put you in a state of mind that has allowed for these insecurities and memories to come forth. I'm very concerned about your mental health. But, because you're in a vulnerable place, your mind palace currently a bit out of proper working order, I think now would be a good time for you to talk to a health professional and get some counseling. There's no telling what could happen if this gets to be any worse, and I don't want you endangering yourself, the kids or anyone else. Will you talk to John about this?"

Sherlock nodded quietly, glancing down at Julian, who was curled up in a ball against his side. Irene had a very valid point about this, and if it meant that he could work through the summation of his problems from the past, maybe he could work towards other personal goals that he had set for himself, especially in his interpersonal skills and relationships. Besides, if John could consider himself an expert on anything, it would be PTSD.

"Thank you," Irene murmured as she leaned over to kiss him chastely.

She slid off the bed and walked out of the room. A few minutes later, Sherlock fell asleep, bored with his own thoughts and exhausted emotionally and physically. Julian shifted in his sleep, accidentally bumping Sherlock where he had been operated on. He had to hold back a cry of pain, instead only hissing in response to the nagging pain he felt in his abdomen.

The hard part would be over sooner or later, Sherlock supposed.


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: Here, have a long chapter. I couldn't bear to break it into shorter pieces.

* * *

><p>Twenty years later, they were still together.<p>

There must have been some sort of an award for this sort of thing, committing to someone for thirty-five years. Spending three and a half decades with the same person was nothing to overlook, but in the same, it didn't seem like it had been that long. In fact, it was probably most surprising to Sherlock and Irene, who, based on their first encounter, probably would have pegged the other to be their lifelong partner.

Sherlock mentioned it nonchalantly one morning in late July, bringing it up as if it was particularly easy to reach this point. "Hmm… thirty five years today."

"Wait… what?" Irene coughed as she glanced over her bifocals to look at him.

"We've been together for thirty-five years today. Or, a better way of putting it, it's been thirty five years since Karachi."

Irene sat back in her chair, pushing back the wedding favors (Aveline was getting married to a man named Cole in a week, and Irene had only just started to make the favors) from her body, towards the center of the table. "Well… that has to mean something, doesn't it?" Irene asked, stunned by this revelation.

"Jade anniversary."

"How long have you known this?"

"Known what?"

"That it was today? I didn't even remember it."

"You wouldn't note the date. It wouldn't be something that you would have specifically remembered like I have."

"Are you insinuating that I don't value this as much as you do?"

"No, I'm saying that you had other things on your mind, not to mention the fact that you had been in a Pakistani prison for a matter of months and probably didn't know the date, so you probably didn't know the date, and therefore, probably haven't pegged this as a date of importance," Sherlock explained.

"Why is this the first time that you're bringing this up?"

"First time it's been important."

"In what universe?"

"Well, it's also the anniversary of the date that I gave you your ring."

Irene glanced down at her hand and examined the platinum band. "You've known the significance of this date for thirty-five years, and you're only now just letting me in on the secret?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's more fun this way."

"Sherlock…"

"Irene, it didn't seem important before."

"Why not?"

"Because it didn't. We've always been wrapped up in other things to be concerned with dates and years and numbers that are easily shadowed by the bigger picture. I mean, I've always preferred that your focus stay with the kids and the wellbeing of our family as a whole instead of little details such as numbers or dates. That's my job. And the only reason I bring it up now is because I've made plans for us tonight that I need you to be ready for."

"What sort of plans?"

"We're going to Paris."

"What?" Irene cried. "Lena and Cole will be here tonight! Ian's going to need someone to fetch him from the train station tomorrow as well!"

"Yes, there is the matter of that, but we'll be back tomorrow morning. Besides, I've already spoken to Birdy and Ian, and they are both in accordance with our plans. It was Cole who suggested Paris, actually."

"They knew about this?"

"Of course."

Irene sighed and rested her head down on the tabletop. "You're impossible," she muttered.

"Our flight leaves at two. You need to be ready to go within the hour," Sherlock informed her before walking out of the room.

Irene sat, bewildered in the kitchen for a few moments before she stood up and walked to their bedroom to put her things together in a small overnight bag. She had a vague idea of what Sherlock might have had up his sleeve, but she couldn't be absolutely sure with him. Knowing this, she packed a nice dress for a potential dinner, a more casual outfit in case it wasn't as fussy as she was anticipating, a nice set of pajamas, and another outfit for the next day. At age 67, she wasn't about to go running around in the same apparel as she had worn back when she first met Sherlock, but she hadn't lost her sense of style either.

Later on that evening, they were sitting in a little café in Paris, sipping cappuccinos and looking out on the Seine River. Sherlock had given Irene a little jade elephant pendant as a gift—the jade anniversary. Irene, feeling guilty about having been ignorant to such a momentous occasion, sat quietly. "What's wrong?" Sherlock asked concernedly.

"You've gone to all this trouble and I haven't even been aware of what this date signifies."

"So?"

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"No."

"Why doesn't that bother you?"

"Like I said: I've always preferred that your focus was on the kids and the family. Extraneous details muddle everything."

"But you've gone and made a really big deal out of this."

"Yes. Because you've managed to stick around for as long as you have. That, in itself, deserves a party."

"But it's Paris… in July…"

"Yes, Irene, it's Paris, in July."

"Do you know how… romantic… this whole thing is?"

"Yes. That's why Cole suggested it and why John agreed with him."

"John knew about this?" Irene squeaked.

"Mary did too."

"How did they manage to keep mum about this?"

"I threatened them with Mycroft."

Irene snorted. "Seriously though…"

"I am serious."

"Sherlock, this is madness!"

"Of course. You wouldn't have it any other way."

He grinned at her impishly before taking another sip of his cappuccino. Irene gaped at him, poised to throw some remark back at him. When no response came to her, she took another sip of her drink and resumed staring out at the river.

"Did I hit the mark?"

"Over the head, several times."

"Oh good. I was concerned that you were upset with me about something," he informed her.

"Sorry," she murmured. "This is lovely. I'm just bothered by the fact that you didn't think it was important to let me in on this huge event before it happened."

"That's the part of a surprise; the one being surprised isn't supposed to know about the surprise before it happens."

"No, not that… the whole anniversary thing. It's obviously stuck with you because you think it's important. And I know you, and I know your tendencies to stay away from the nitty-gritty details. It makes me sad to know that I haven't held this in such high regard as you have."

He shrugged noncommittally. "It doesn't bother me."

"But it should."

"I disagree."

"Why?"

"Because you're not looking at this from my point of view. You've been insane enough to stick with me. You like Paris, you like cafes, you like the romanticism of this. I know that, you know that, and this is the first time that it's been necessary to point out the significance of this date to you. Please just take this at face value."

"I'm not sure if I can."

"Try. Please."

She sighed. She could take it at face value and accept it as it was. The more she thought about it, the date really didn't matter. It was simply a fixed point during the year that came and went, and quite honestly, the fact that she didn't know the true significance of this date until now was somewhat of a relief for her. The lack of fuss and hyped importance of the date made that day even more important. She could forgive him for the previous three and a half decades of keeping this from her.

Besides, Paris was beautiful that evening and there was no point in spoiling that.

Not even a week later, it was the day of Aveline's wedding. Irene was dressed and ready to go by ten in the morning of the day of the wedding. Aveline's dress had arrived at nine, but Aveline was having trouble getting up and getting ready to go. Sherlock had been the one to make sure that Aveline was up and showered by ten-thirty, not wanting his daughter to be late for her own wedding.

"Birdy, get up. It's your wedding day, and I don't want to be the one to tell Cole why you were late."

"Ugh… Dad… I'm completely knackered."

"Was your hen party last night? I thought it was two days ago."

"Dad, I have been planning a wedding, running around like a chicken with my head cut off… also, my hen party was last week, back in London."

"Fine. But you need to get up. Your mother is concerned."

"Why is Mum concerned?"

"Because you aren't still running around like a chicken with your head cut off."

Irene stuck her head into the room. "Lena, get up! We have to do your hair and makeup, and you still haven't had anything to eat!"

"Mum!" Aveline cried out with a laugh. "We're fine!"

"It's your wedding day. Why aren't you freaking out?"

"I'm fine. Were you like this on your wedding day?"

Irene and Sherlock both let out haughty laughs. Aveline looked confused. "You two did have a wedding, right?"

"I told you that your mother didn't know our anniversary."

"Of when you saved her life."

"And has there ever been a time when we would have celebrated a wedding anniversary? Your mother would have remembered that."

"You two aren't married?" Aveline squeaked.

"Nope," Sherlock answered. "Now, don't be like your parents. Get up and get ready for your wedding day."

Aveline gaped at her parents. "But you two have been together for so long. It must be common law by now…"

"Oh, yes, that's the case, but we never made any concerted effort to make it legally so," Sherlock explained. "Now, come along."

"Mum… you told me that you and Dad are married."

"You were three and I didn't know what else to say."

"So you lied to me?"

"Yes. Now, use us an example and get up so you don't have to lie to your children about your marital status."

"Why are you pestering me about this?" Aveline laughed, still shocked about her parents' announcement.

"Because it's not every day that one of our children gets married," Irene explained. "Plus, the dress is here, and I can't wait to see you in it."

"But you've seen me in the dress, Mum."

"I know… but it's different today. Come on, get up!"

Aveline laughed at her parents and swung her legs over the side of her bed. Never had she seen her parents so excited about something like this, and based on the expressions they both wore on their faces, she was a little concerned about it. "Can I at least have a little privacy while I'm getting ready?" she asked cautiously.

Sherlock took this as his cue to leave. "Omelet?"

Irene shook her head. "She can't have something too heavy for breakfast. She doesn't want to get an upset stomach while she's walking down the aisle."

Aveline ushered her parents out of her room to go bicker out in the hallway whilst she showered and got ready for the hair and makeup that she'd have to endure. Irene was a little too enthusiastic about this aspect of her daughter's wedding day, but considering Irene's apparent background in personal appearance (the details regarding the origins of her mother's impeccable fashion sense were remarkably vague), Aveline supposed it wasn't the worst thing in the world to have Irene's consultation.

When Aveline emerged from her room, freshly showered and in her robe, Irene jumped up from the kitchen table, nearly spilling her tea on herself. "Okay, let's go!" she cried as she hurried towards her daughter.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock came sauntering into Aveline's room. "Are you two ready?" he asked them, seemingly bored with the situation.

Irene hurried over to him. "Lena, turn around to show your father the dress," she urged.

Aveline stood up from the vanity stool and reluctantly turned around. She held her arms out awkwardly and made a face at her father. "So?"

He grinned at her. "I hope there are enough buttons and zippers to slow Cole down tonight," he remarked flatly. "Though, I'm not entirely opposed to being a grandfather in nine months' time."

Irene let out an involuntary laugh as Aveline stared at her father in disbelief. "Oh my god…" she murmured in horror.

Sherlock started laughing. "You look lovely," he assured her. "Now, are you ready to go? Wouldn't want you to be late to your own wedding."

Aveline's eyes widened and she gathered up her skirts and rushed out of her room. Irene hurried after her, grabbing the veil and the bag that she had packed for the church and reception. Sherlock chuckled at the sight of Irene and Aveline running out of the flat with all of their things.

Julian was waiting in the foyer of the flat, holding a box of flowers and looking a bit bored. "Are we ready?" he asked his sister as she rushed past.

"Yes, Ian," she hissed as she exited the flat and hurried down the hallway to the elevator. "Where is Dad?"

Sherlock looked at his son and rolled his eyes. "Careful. They're all like that at some point in their lives," he warned.

Julian snickered. "Some more than others," he added.

"I heard that!" Irene called back.

"I think you were supposed to, Mum!" Julian replied.

Irene spun around to look at him. "You cheeky little brat," she joked. "Just like your father."

"Of course," Julian agreed. "You seem to like him though, so apparently, something's working."

"Will you save the banter for later?" Aveline sighed. "We are going to be late!"

Sherlock strolled over to the elevator and shook his head. "We're actually fifteen minutes early. I set all the clocks ahead fifteen minutes to make sure that we were out of the house on time. We've got time, but since it appears as though you are ready to go, there's no point in waiting around."

Irene glared at him. "You set the clocks forward?"

"Just doing my part."

Irene sighed. "It's a good thing that you're so damn endearing. Otherwise, I don't know how you would have managed."

"Oh, you know you like it," he replied.

"You know that part about my stomach being upset while walking down the aisle?" Aveline interjected. "It has started… since when did you two get frisky again?"

"Again?" Julian laughed. "They've never stopped!"

"Ian, don't be so crude," Irene scolded.

She paused for a beat and then looked to Aveline. "But, he's correct in that statement."

"Spare me the details," she sighed as the doors to the elevator finally opened.

They stepped into the lift and waited for the doors to close. "Ian, did you know that Mum and Dad aren't technically married?"

Julian looked from his father to his mother. "You finally told her?"

Aveline let out a squeak. "You told him but not me?"

"He hacked into the Records Department and found our files," Sherlock explained nonchalantly.

"But he knew before I did?"

"Yes."

"See, as the older child, I don't think that that's necessarily fair."

"Adele never knew," Julian pointed out.

"Well… yes… but how would you explain that to a five-year-old?"

"The same way we explained it to you," Irene answered.

"A wedding ring doesn't automatically mean that you're married though," Aveline pointed out.

"You're right; it doesn't. And let that be a lesson for you and Cole. A wedding ring doesn't mean a damn thing unless you're committed to what that ring represents," Sherlock interjected.

"Why don't you wear a ring then?" Aveline countered.

"I don't wear jewelry."

The doors to the lift opened up and they walked out. The car was waiting for them on the street, so they all piled in, making sure that Aveline's dress didn't get ruined in the process. They were off to the church, ten minutes ahead of schedule, much to Sherlock's delight. Julian followed the car in Irene's car to the wedding, since it would be Aveline and Cole who drove to the airport in the hired car.

Forty-five minutes later, it was show time.

Aveline and Sherlock stood down at the end of the aisle, in front of closed doors, before processional started. "Are you ready?" he asked her quietly.

"I cannot believe you and Mum aren't actually married, but Ian somehow knew before I did."

"Birdy, the things you choose to focus on never cease to amaze me," Sherlock murmured to his daughter. "Just take this as a lesson and don't follow in our footsteps."

"Okay. God… I'm so nervous."

"Your mother might have been right?"

"Of course she was right. I wasn't going to tell her that though."

"You are your mother's daughter," he murmured.

The processional music started. Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Strange Magic by ELO?" he asked.

"Cole really likes the song."

"Interesting choice."

"Be nice…" Aveline muttered as the doors opened and she caught sight of the church, full of her family and friends. "Oh god…"

She hesitated, taken aback by the amount of people in the church. "Birdy, you're fine."

Sherlock gently squeezed her hand as he guided her by their linked arms. He caught Irene's eye and grinned at her cheekily as he led Aveline, who was gripping his arm like a life preserver. She had her eyes locked only on Cole, which was to be expected, but Sherlock was concerned that she looked like she was in a hostage situation. "Relax… you look like you're being forced to get married."

Aveline nodded and let out a long exhale. After about three-dozen more steps, they were at the altar. Cole had stepped down to meet them, grinning at Aveline and looking grateful to Sherlock. After informing the priest who gave Aveline to be married, Sherlock turned to Cole. "Take care of her," Sherlock instructed his soon to be son-in-law.

"I will," Cole promised before taking Aveline's hand.

Sherlock stepped down off of the altar and sat down next to Irene, who was about to burst into tears. "Who's the sappy git now?" he murmured to her.

Irene batted at him. "Don't start. I bet you will be crying by the end of the ceremony."

He didn't, but as he watched his daughter get married, her entire childhood ran through his mind. His hard drive was full of memories of Aveline running through the house, learning how to play the cello, the arguments, the awards, the day she graduated from law school, the day she brought the tall, lanky young man with sandy-brown hair and glasses home and announced that she was engaged, but most importantly, the day that all of this had started for Sherlock: the day he had met her mother.

Maybe marriage wasn't the worst thing in the world. But at age 70 and having spent half a lifetime with her, it seemed a little redundant. They never had needed the pomp and circumstance that Aveline and Cole had chosen to have for the start of their life together. A risky escape from a prison in Karachi had done the job well. The journey from Karachi to Mumbai to Darwin could have counted as a honeymoon as far as they were concerned.

He glanced over at Irene and smiled.

Later on, during the reception, he stood up and gave a heartfelt speech to the bride and groom: "…And Cole, if you ever hurt her, just know that both the Scotland Yard and a minor division of the British government will be after you. And Birdy, try not to wear him out; you two have a great deal of life ahead of you, and you want to make sure that he's able to keep up with you in the long run. I love you both and I am as proud as any father could be today."

Shortly after the speeches, dinner was served, and then it was time for dancing before the cake was cut. Sherlock excused himself after dancing with Aveline for the father-daughter dance (Sweetest Thing- U2). He had something up his sleeve (technically in his coat pocket) for Irene. After he was done preparing his surprise for Irene, he returned to the festivities.

"May I have this dance?" he asked her as he put his hand on her shoulder.

She tilted her head up at him. "Sherlock Holmes dances?" she trilled.

"Let me prove it," he hummed.

"Okay. Lead the way, Mr. Holmes," Irene answered with a sly smile to the woman whom she had been speaking with.

In an unexpected whirl of activity, Irene found herself in Sherlock's arms, slowly keeping time with the music. The claim had been made many a time, but he certainly was an unending surprise. What caught Irene's attention, however, was not how his hand rested on her lower back, but instead, how his hand felt different against hers. Something was slightly off about how his hand felt to her. As soon as she realized what it was, her eyes flicked up to meet his. "You're wearing a ring," she observed.

"I figured after thirty-five years, it was about time," he explained.

"Oh lord… thirty-five years… no wonder I'm exhausted," she groaned melodramatically.

"You wouldn't change a thing. Sentiment is bound up in the last three and a half decades."

"But you're wearing a ring. Why?"

"I told you."

"But you could have started wearing a ring when I did, but that was years ago. Besides, I thought you didn't wear jewelry. Why now?"

"Just letting you know that you're not going to get rid of me."

"I already knew that."

"Just making sure."

The song ended and they retreated to their table. Sherlock sat down first, taking a sip of water shortly after taking a seat. Irene sat down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. She let out a contented sigh and closed her eyes. "It's seemed like all this time together has been a wonderful dream. It was real when it happened, but now it doesn't feel like it was real. Do you ever feel like that?"

Sherlock looked over at her. "No. I don't feel like that. It still feels just as real as it did the day we first met. Except now, we're older and wiser."

"And our daughter is married. That's insane, isn't it? To think that Lena is married?"

"She beat us to that one," Sherlock murmured.

"Maybe on paper."

The evening continued on with more merriment, dancing, and celebration. Never one to really drink, Sherlock abstained from alcohol consumption because he would have to drive back to the flat later on in the evening. Irene flitted around the reception hall, mingling with the guests and having a good time. Julian had slipped away with one of the bridesmaids (that was one thing that he hadn't taken after his father in) and was nowhere to be found.

When it came time for Aveline and Cole to hurry off to their honeymoon, the wedding guests all crowded around the doors and started cheering them off with well wishes. Shortly thereafter, Sherlock and Irene headed out, leaving Julian to his own accord for getting back to the flat.

They drove for some time without any sort of issues. About twenty minutes in, another car came speeding around a blind curve, clearly out of control. Sherlock let out a string of curse words as he tried to accommodate the car coming toward them, but his efforts were in vain. Knowing that this was not going to end well, he grabbed Irene's hand. "I love you," he murmured in a rush.

As he slammed on the brakes, he felt himself falling forward, the inevitable crash following shortly after. There was no sound; no screams from Irene or the noise of the car squealing as the brakes were engaged. Before Sherlock could analyze the peculiarity of this, everything went dark.

* * *

><p>AN:

Irene's dress: (without spaces): http:/ .com/s/ tadashi-shoji- pleated-chiffon-flutter- sleeve-gown/ 3238561? origin=category

-OR-

Google "Tadashi Shoji Pleated Chiffon Flutter Sleeve Gown"

Aveline's dress: (without spaces): http:/ www. theknot. com/ wedding-dress/ elie-saab- for-pronovias/ aglaya?src= -1


	48. Chapter 48

Sherlock woke up with a start. He was in an unfamiliar flat. He was on the floor, on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Irene?" he called out.

Molly walked into the room, holding a tray with tea, toast, and an apple. "Sherlock, are you okay?" she asked him in concern.

"Where is Irene?"

"Who?"

"Irene? My… my wife? Where is Irene?" he asked erratically, getting up from the floor and starting to panic.

Molly set down the tray of food and grabbed Sherlock squarely on the arms. "Sherlock, calm down. You're at my flat."

This realization hit him as he saw Molly's confused expression. It was now thirty hours after he had faked his death, and Molly had taken him home from the morgue after doing her post-mortem examination. John was probably somewhere, curled up in a ball, still reeling from the shock.

"Oh…" he breathed.

It had all been a dream.

Irene Adler, now known as Miss Elizabeth Jenkins of Seattle, Washington, was no longer in danger. She had been able to escape from Karachi unscathed after Sherlock had saved her life. He hadn't spoken to her since the night after they ran for their lives. The only indication he had that she was alive and in Washington State was because that was where he told her to go. He told her that she would be safe in Seattle.

There were no babies. There had never been any sex. There had never been any sort of relationship. To Sherlock, Irene Adler was only The Woman. She had never been more than that.

He glanced down at his left hand. The ring that he had been so certain that had been there wasn't and as he looked back up at Molly, he caught sight of himself in a mirror behind her. He looked his age. He was still only thirty-five.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I'm just disoriented."

"I can tell," Molly laughed uncomfortably. "Here, eat something. Your system needs food."

He did not protest to Molly's offering of food, but ate slowly as he contemplated what he had assumed to be his reality, but had actually only been a dream.

If it was only just a dream—which it was, he couldn't deny that—why would he have dreamt of domesticity and a life that he would never ordinarily take? Why would he dream about Irene, having children with Irene and living with Irene and committing to Irene? Why would he dream about Adele and Adele's death and being paternal to her? Why would he dream of Aveline and watch Aveline grow up from the tiny little pink bundle to the twenty-eight year old woman in her wedding dress, holding the pink bundle of flowers? Why would he dream about Julian and how he grew up and went to Cambridge to follow the steps that Sherlock was supposed to take?

But most unsettling was the fact that Sherlock didn't mind the dream. No… this dream wasn't unpleasant to him, save for the trauma of Adele's death and his encounters with Moriarty. Why hadn't he figured out that it was a dream sooner than he had?

"Molly, where have you put my bag?" Sherlock asked her after finishing his meal.

"I'll go fetch it," she answered as she stood up from her chair and hurried off into the other room.

When she returned, she saw Sherlock standing at the window. "Here it is," she said as she placed the bag down next to him. "But Sherlock… why were you talking about a wife?"

He turned around to look at her. "I was disoriented."

"But you were asking about a wife… you were adamant about finding your wife."

"Those chemicals were very strong, weren't they?"

"You aren't married, are you?"

"Do I seem like the marrying type?"

"Well no… but then again, there's really no telling with you."

He eyed her warily. "Molly, I don't have a wife. I understand your confusion about why I would come out of being unconscious for a substantial length of time asking for my wife, but I am not married. And it's not likely that I will ever be married."

Molly's face fell slightly as she let out a little sigh. She didn't like the feeling she had about this, but she decided that she should just let the matter go to rest. "Well… I have to get to the morgue. I have to finish the paperwork for your body."

"Right. Thank you Molly. I can't express how much I appreciate your help with this."

She blushed and looked down at the floor. "I just hope everything works out the way it needs to," she murmured.

"Me too."

A few minutes later, she was back in the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, making sure that he had everything in his bag. He had put on a hat. "Are you leaving?" she asked him?"

He stood up from the couch. "It's three in the morning. So… yes. I have to get out of London as soon as possible."

"Won't you draw attention to yourself?"

"Probably, but I'm taking the necessary precautions."

He pulled off the hat and showed her that he had buzzed his hair off. "This is for you," he added, handing her a bag full of his shorn hair. "It should help with the DNA processing."

Molly nodded silently. "Well, if this is goodbye…"

"No need to make it overly sentimental," Sherlock answered stiffly.

"I know… but you could die, for real this time."

"Yes, that is true."

"Are you scared?"

"No."

"Honestly?"

"Maybe a little, but when the benefits outweigh the costs, it's worth it."

She nodded slightly, blinking back what Sherlock assumed were tears. She was genuinely scared for him. And maybe, he was scared for himself too. "Watch after John for me?" he asked. "I'm concerned that he's going to go off and do something stupid."

"Of course," Molly assured him with a loud sniff.

"And Mrs. Hudson. She's has a bad hip. Take a look at it now and then. John keeps an eye on it sometimes, but another set of eyes wouldn't hurt."

"I will."

"And Lestrade. I think he's interested in you."

Molly blushed. "No he's not," she protested hastily.

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he murmured. "One day, you'll be made a dame."

"Doubtful."

"Not at all."

He smiled broadly at her. What John had said about friends protecting people was true. He just hadn't realized it until this point. "I won't keep you," he murmured, ushering her toward the door. "The paperwork should be filed so it will be in the morning papers."

Molly nodded but remained where she was. "Be careful Sherlock."

"I'll try."

"I'm serious. I want to see you back in London someday."

"I'll want to be back in London someday."

"Right then. Well… you go and take out an international crime web and I'll cover your tracks."

In a very uncharacteristic action, Sherlock hugged Molly awkwardly before he stepped away from her. "I suppose I should be off then," he answered. "Stay safe."

"I will try," she assured him.

Sherlock picked up his bag and let himself out of the flat. As he walked out of the main building, out onto the deserted street, he reached into his pocket and pulled out Irene's phone, his trophy. It was now technically his phone, but he would always consider it Irene's phone.

He laughed to himself as he stared at the phone in his hand. Irene Adler. The thought of that woman ever being his wife made him laugh. He acknowledged that if he ever found himself at the mercy of Irene Adler again, she could be so much more than his wife. After all, he may have had her phone but she had a reserved spot on his mental hard drive.

Maybe someday, once he had gotten his life in order and had effectively destroyed Moriarty, he would find Irene and have dinner with her. But, before that day could come, he had work to do.

He had only just begun.

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fin.

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><p>AN: Thank you so much for sticking with me through this. I appreciate your feedback and reviews so much, and this has been an excellent experiment in building self confidence towards my writing. It has been an absolute joy sharing this story with you.

Best wishes to you and yours,

-soulofair


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